


From Her Ashes Risen

by letterfromtrenwith



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: AU, AU for s3 & 4, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, OC, references to non-con/rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-19 18:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17006481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromtrenwith/pseuds/letterfromtrenwith
Summary: After Whitworth's death, Morwenna contemplates her past, present and future.





	1. Chapter 1

As Morwenna stepped into the hall at Trenwith, her only thoughts were of the few hours of freedom it would be. A rare escape from her sham of an existence. Osborne was away at one of his other parishes - or so he said, she cared not if he truly was - and his mother had removed herself to her own home at last. Both would be displeased that she had come, but every moment out of that house was to be seized. Osborne had been particularly oppressive lately - although she was still just managing to keep him physically at bay - ever since her return from an extended stay at Trenwith, undertaken on the premise of helping Elizabeth after the birth of baby Ursula.

The invitation to tonight's party had been delivered directly, and discreetly, into her hand by Elizabeth's maid, Polly. Morwenna had suspected for a while that Osborne and his mother were keeping letters from her, and indeed visitors. Even her mother had been sent away; not that Morwenna wished to see her, considering it was by her efforts that this abomination of a marriage had been achieved. The stay at Trenwith had only been permitted by George exerting considerable pressure upon Osborne.

"Morwenna, my dear!" Elizabeth was still glowing with her recent motherhood, white and gold-embroidered gown flattering her complexion attractively. Morwenna had worn her one evening dress, simple cream with a golden-brown sash. Generally, she did her best to avoid attending social gatherings with Osborne; she had no desire to be paraded around by him as if he were a husband to be proud of. "I am so glad you have come."

"Here we are, my dear." George lifted a drink from the tray of a passing footman, which Morwenna accepted gratefully.

"Wenna!" Geoffrey Charles strode across the room to embrace her, which cheered her more than just about anything recently. Sometimes it seemed such a short time ago that he had been her pupil - and often it seemed a lifetime – and it astonished her how much he had grown. He stood before her now a young man, although still with that boyish mischief in his eyes. Behind him, a pale, mousy-haired boy stood hesitantly by. Geoffrey Charles introduced him as his dear friend, the Hon. Percival Yardley.

"Please to meet you, Mrs. Whitworth. Geoffrey Charles talks of you often." She pushed aside the usual stab of bitterness the utterance of her married name inspired in her to smile at him. He spoke so very softly, and was clearly rather shy.

After some time, she grew tired of polite conversation - consisting mostly of enquiries about the health of her husband, her mother-in-law or her mother, none of whom she particularly wished to speak of. Excusing herself from Elizabeth she went out for a breath of air, closing her eyes to enjoy the cool air on her face and take in the scents and sounds of the garden. For a moment, she could almost be back in time, when this was her home and she lived in peace and contentment.

Yearning for the past was foolish - she had her happy memories, of sun-lit days upon the beach, playing cards with George and Elizabeth after Geoffrey Charles had gone to bed, cradling baby Valentine in her arms, laughing with Polly over a hot chocolate in the kitchens...she shook her head. Remembrances were all well and good, but they were no true escape, merely reminding her more of her reality. With a sigh, she turned back towards the house.

"Ah, Morwenna, there you are." George had apparently simply abandoned his conversation with Monk Adderley to come to speak to her. She could not blame him - Adderley reminded her entirely too much of Osborne, albeit with a cover of superficial charm. Before he could say any more, Morwenna sensed a presence behind her and whirled around quickly, instinctively backing away from any approach. Lord, how she loathed this startled creature she had become. "Oh, Captain Yardley. This is our cousin Miss - Mrs. Morwenna Whitworth. Morwenna, Captain Frederick Yardley of the 14th Dragoons. The Captain is Master Percival's elder brother, and is recently returned from Flanders."

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am. Your cousin makes me sound quite the war hero, but any man there will tell you that we none of us covered ourselves in glory." Morwenna found herself struggling to answer. For, looking up at the Captain, she had felt something extraordinary. It was barely a feeling in fact, more of a distant echo of one, of some emotion she had not encountered since those stolen moments on cliff-tops and in the woods, which seemed ever more like dreams as time went by.

Captain Yardley had an elegant face, his aristocratic lineage unmistakable, although robbed of its severity by his easy smile, an expression he was clearly used to adopting; she had not missed its brief flicker at the mention of Flanders, however. Despite being more obviously robust than his younger sibling, he still looked almost too refined for soldiering. He had brown eyes, she noticed, just as she realised that his slight frown was due to her lack of a reply.

"How do you do, Captain." She managed. "What- what brings you to Cornwall?"

"Oh, I am afraid I have imposed most dreadfully on your cousins. I had some business in Falmouth, and as my brother is visiting here for the school holidays, I simply turned up at their door and relied upon their hospitality."

"Any family of Percival's is naturally quite welcome." George answered with a smile, already glancing away as Elizabeth called his name from across the room, gesturing him toward her. With a polite bow, he excused himself, leaving Morwenna alone with Captain Yardley. Save George, Geoffrey Charles and Dr Enys, she had not been alone with any man bar her husband for nigh upon two years. It should have disturbed her, and yet it did not; at least, not as much as it might have. The fact that he made no attempt to move closer to her was some help.

He was a pleasant, unimposing conversationalist. Perhaps sensing her reaction to his brief enquiry about her husband, he averted the topic entirely thereafter, instead talking of Cornwall, and books and inviting her to speak of John Conan. She even found herself laughing when the conversation moved to George and Elizabeth's children.

"Mrs Warleggan rather thinks I am a wonder with Master Valentine, but I am aided by a liberal application of barley sugars."

When he bid her farewell at the end of the night, he did not attempt to kiss her hand, but merely bent over it, smiling.

"It was a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, Captain." She replied, with complete honesty.

~

Two days later, with Osborne and his mother back in the house, her brief interlude of peace already seeming a distant memory, Morwenna sat silently beside her husband in the carriage, avoiding the imperious stare of Lady Whitworth. They were on their way to tea with some relation of the Whitworths whose name Morwenna did not care to learn. She would not be permitted to speak during the occasion anyhow, even if she had desired to do so.

"Ah, Mrs Warleggan!" Lady Whitworth's cloying tone made Morwenna grit her teeth, and even Elizabeth could barely hide the distaste in the twist of her mouth as she pulled up her horse at the side of the road.

"Good afternoon, Lady Whitworth. Reverend. Morwenna." She barely glanced at Osborne, but smiled softly at Morwenna. George no longer made a secret of his disdain for the Whitworths, and Elizabeth's politeness was becoming strained to its limit. They knew how Morwenna lived, how Osborne behaved. What fate her mother had consigned her to. At first, they had consented to securing a match for her, until Whitworth had appeared and George had flatly refused to consider it, especially not paying the man any money. In their home, she had been safe, but even they could not prevent her mother from insisting upon her leaving, sending Rowella to claim that she was ill, and that Morwenna must come at once. Lady Whitworth had already been waiting for her.

Two more riders followed Elizabeth around the hedge at the end of the road. The first was Geoffrey Charles, the second...Captain Yardley's brows raised in recognition as he saw her, that welcoming smile appearing. It was immediately altered by Elizabeth pre-empting any greeting he might have offered.

"Ah, allow me to introduce you. Captain Yardley, this is Lady Whitworth, the Rev. Osborne Whitworth and Mrs. Morwenna Whitworth, my cousin."

"Pleased to meet you all. My Lady." Leaning impressively gracefully from his saddle, he bowed over the hand Lady Whitworth had condescendingly extended toward him. His eyes passed politely but impersonally over Morwenna. He had understood Elizabeth's pretence - if Osborne had a notion of any acquaintance between Morwenna and another man, it would mean nothing but ill for her.

"Well, do not let us keep you." Morwenna took a small measure of satisfaction at her cousin's dismissal of the Whitworths, and her Ladyship's pinched mouth of irritation in response. The driver snapped the reigns and they trotted on, Geoffrey Charles and Captain Yardley touching their hats. Morwenna dared not look back, but somehow she knew that she was being watched, and that odd ghost of a feeling stirred in her again. 

 

XXXXXXXX

 

It was not long thereafter that she was plunged into a black swirl of terror and misery, just when she had foolishly thought that Osborne and his mother could not conspire to make her life an even greater purgatory. John Conan, the only joy her accursed union had brought her, was forcibly taken away, that horrid hatchet-faced nursemaid taking a place alongside only her husband and his mother in Mornwenna's hatred.

Then, Dr Behenna appeared, asking her questions about her state of mind and her mental faculties. She knew immediately that this was not born of any genuine concern for her, not by any means. She overheard Osborne and his mother confirming her worst fears - they intended to have her committed. So utterly warped had her life become that for the briefest of moments she was almost glad - at least she would be away from both - but then she came to her senses; she would be locked in an even greater prison than she was now, and she would never see her son again. It was not truly John Conan that the Whitworths wanted, she knew that; with her alive and well, they could not touch her marriage settlement. George had initially refused to pay Osborne a penny, and Morwenna had heard Lady Whitworth swear that she would "teach that upstart his place". To Morwenna's surprise, she had returned crowing in victory, which had lasted only until George had made it clear that Morwenna's settlement had been placed in a trust solely for her use, and which he alone controlled. The Whitworths would not see a penny of it. Despite the horror of Osborne's anger at this discovery, she had taken a sliver of bitter satisfaction from her Ladyship's affront.

Now, if they could get rid of her, they would be able to leverage John Conan for access to the funds. As Morwenna's heir, he too had a stake in the trust. George would fight them, of course, but even he would struggle to deprive the child.

"I'll get a messsage to Miss Polly, she can warn Mr Warleggan. He'll stop them." Dinah, the only one of the Whitworths' servants who treated her with kindness, whispered to Morwenna one evening just before bed. Morwenna touched her arm gently, grateful for the gesture but knowing it would be useless. George could protect her money, and Elizabeth could contrive excuse after excuse to get Morwenna out of the house for a short while, but even with all of their riches and all of their power, the Warleggans could do nothing to save her. That was the way of the world - Osborne owned her, and could do with her what he liked.

Dr Enys spoke up for her, of course, she heard him even in her room, his normally calm voice raised at Osborne; but truly, he could do nothing either. In the end, Morwenna's only choice was to submit once more to Osborne, subject herself to one torment in order to escape another. His insistence upon it had nothing to do with desire for her, nor even for his own satisfaction. He could derive that anywhere, and indeed did; it was her punishment for refusing to worship him as he felt he deserved, for daring to try to escape him in the first instance. Afterwards - and oh, but it was even worse than she remembered - she had opened her bedside drawer and stared at the bottle of laudanum Dr Behenna had given her. She had never taken any, so if she were to swallow the whole bottle...

No. She would not give Osborne the satisfaction. Besides, how could she abandon John Conan to them? Lady Whitworth would poison him as she had poisoned her own son, turn that sweet child into the same monster his father was. At least if she were alive, and in the same house, Morwenna may have a chance to save him from that fate.

So resigned had she been to an even blacker future than before that when the news had come, she had thought it a cruel joke of her mind - some taunting dream of an impossible salvation. Yet, it was real. Osborne was dead, dragged by his own horse in some accident. She had no real interest in what had happened - he was gone, that was all that mattered. They'd brought his body back to the house, covered reverently in a sheet as if he were worth any kind of decency. Ignoring Lady Whitworth's ranting at Dr Enys, Morwenna crept into the bedroom to look at what was left of her husband. Osborne appeared much his usual loathsome self, save some cuts and bruises on his face, but he was unmistakably dead, now nothing more than that hideous flesh, the servicing of which had occupied his every waking thought.

A laugh bubbled up out of her, uncontrollable and wild. With her Ladyship still shouting downstairs, she doubted anyone could hear her; if they had, they would have thought her as mad as Osborne had tried to make her out.

~

She walked away from her mother at the funeral, from her words of condolence for a husband she knew full well Morwenna had never wanted. For a moment, she had considered telling her mother exactly what her scheming had put her through, what sort of man she had delivered her daughter into the hands of, but what was the point? It would not take any of it away.

"I will take the child, of course. His mother is incapable." Lady Whitworth saw fit to announce this at the wake, as if Morwenna were not standing a few feet away from her.

"Do not listen to her," Elizabeth murmured. "With Osborne gone, she is powerless. She can do nothing to you, or to John Conan."

She followed George and Elizabeth into the entrance hall as they took their leave, knowing it was for the best that their conversation not be overheard. George glanced around cautiously and lowered his voice.

"When can you be ready?"

"Tomorrow? Is that too soon?" She looked anxiously between them, but Elizabeth shook her head.

"No, it can never be too soon. We will see you then." Her cousin kissed her on the forehead, and then they were gone. That evening, as she stepped out into the garden for a breath of air, the figure appearing at the gate took her entirely by surprise.

"Morwenna!" It was Drake. It occurred to her that she had almost forgotten about him. After a period of mourning for the loss of what was between them, she had realised that it was no good to dwell upon it. Sadly, she had put away the bracelet he had given her, closing the lid of her jewellery box upon it. Too many other things had overtaken her mind since then - chiefly her struggle to simply endure. As with any other memory, thoughts of Drake would serve only to remind her of what she had lost, of what she would never have again.

Now, here he was, dressed quite smartly, as if he had been to a dance, but dishevelled. His hair was disarrayed, his neck-cloth undone and there were what looked like spatters of dirt all over him.

"You - " She hardly knew what to say. "You cannot be seen here."

"Morwenna, I had t'come once I heard. Now ye are free - " Before he could finish Morwenna was shaking her head, backing towards the house, her whole mind and body telling her to escape. She did not want to hear this. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

"No. No. Please. Please go."

"I know I'm not fit, I've been sleepin' rough, but I - " He shook his head, and looked at her so pleadingly she could not bear to meet his eyes. "I do love 'ee still."

"You must go, Drake. Go, and do not return. There is nothing for you here." After she had closed the door, she stood for several moments with her forehead pressed to the wood.

Thankfully, Lady Whitworth went out somewhere early in the morning the day after the funeral, leaving Morwenna able to prepare in peace. Dinah helped her pack, and Morwenna snapped at any other servant who questioned her. It hardly mattered what they tattled to her Ladyship now. As she had expected, the nursemaid proved obstinate, but that had been settled when Elizabeth and George arrived with the carriage. While Polly and a Trenwith footman carried out what little Morwenna cared to take, Elizabeth accompanied her to the nursery, striding past the sputtering nurse and picking up John Conan.

"Do not approach me. If you so much as attempt to prevent this child from leaving with his mother, my husband will have you arrested. What do you think Lady Whitworth will care to do for you when you are languishing in gaol?" The woman twisted her mouth sourly for a moment, but had to give in, stepping sullenly back against the wall. Elizabeth handed John Conan to Morwenna, who hugged him to her as tightly as she could, even as he squirmed. Nobody could ever take him away from her again.

Lady Whitworth's voice could be heard well before they even descended the stairs, and they found her attempting to prevent Polly from taking out the final box.

"Get yer hands off me, ye old witch!"

"How DARE you speak to me like that! You little - Morwenna! What is the meaning of this?!" Morwenna would not miss that imperious tone and sanctimonious manner. Dear Lord, but if she never saw hide nor hair of his woman again in her life it would be too soon.

"We are going home to Trenwith, your Ladyship. I am sure you will enjoy your own company far more than mine."

"You are going nowhere! You dare to presume that you can - "

"Morwenna presumes nothing." George interrupted smoothly, appearing behind Lady Whitworth in the doorway. "She is a free woman, and if she chooses to leave here, and take her son, no one living has any right to prevent her."

"You - I - How - " Lady Whitworth stuttered angrily, her face bright red with rage. So incensed was she that she barely even noticed when Morwenna actually walked past her, guided gently by Elizabeth. It was only once they were all out in the garden that the woman found her voice. "You come into my son's house, and take from him his legal property - "

"Your son is dead, and Lord knows he has done the world a favour by becoming so, and he has no property. Least of all his wife and child, for whom he had no care in life, and from whom he deserves no deference in death. Furthermore, this is not your son's house. It is mine." He reached into his coat and produced a roll of paper. "Now that Morwenna is released from her connection to your wretched family, I am free to collect the not inconsiderable debt which your son owed me. A sum which, as it happens, exceeds even the value of this house."

He pulled the door closed and pinned the paper to it: _Notice of Repossession._

"You and your henchmen have until four o'clock this afternoon to remove yourselves, or constables will arrive to do it forcibly. Good day."

Morwenna's last glimpse of her former mother-in-law before George pulled the carriage door shut behind him was her standing on the garden path, opening and closing her mouth in silent outrage. As they drove away, it finally occurred to Morwenna that she was leaving that house for the very last time, and she let out a breath she felt as if she had been holding for years.


	2. Chapter 2

She spent the first few days at Trenwith simply absorbing the feeling of being back there, and knowing she did not have to return to the Whitworth house. The sheer relief of it outweighed almost every other emotion. John Conan, too, seemed lighter. She had thought of him as a carefree boy, but seeing him run along the corridors with Valentine, shrieking in delight as they chased the housekeeper's little terrier, she realised how solemn and silent he had been before. The atmosphere of that house had oppressed him as much as it had her, but she had been too selfishly concerned with her own misery to notice.

Before she could begin to properly think of anything else, she was afforded a deeply unwelcome distraction. George had been evidently under the weather for a few days, but brushed off Elizabeth's anxious questions with an insistence it was merely a head-cold. However, Morwenna did not miss the way he held his side when he coughed, or the way the coughs themselves became harsher, and she knew Elizabeth did not miss it either.

Early one morning, she was roused from her bed by a commotion, feet hurrying along the hallway outside and hushed, urgent voices. Pulling on her robe, she stepped out of her room, catching one of the footmen just as he was passing.

"Ted? What's happening?"

"It's the master, Ma'am. He's grave ill. Mistress couldn't rouse him this morning. Polly's gone for t’doctor." 

"Dear Lord." She found Elizabeth still in her nightclothes, kneeling on the bed beside George, clutching his hand.

"He's burning hot." Her cousin looked at her desperately, as if Morwenna herself held the cure for what ailed George. He lay still on the bed, pale and clammy, his breathing painfully ragged. It was hardly a surprise when Dr Enys diagnosed pneumonia, but it was no less terrible for it, especially as there was almost nothing that could be done for him. 

For six days and nights, George battled the fever, hovering terrifyingly close to death. Elizabeth refused to leave his side, only sleeping in the chair beside the bed when sheer exhaustion overtook her. Morwenna spent most of her time with the children, trying to distract them with games and stories. Valentine asked often for his papa; she told him that George was ill but would be better soon, and prayed that she would not be made a liar in the worst way.

Miraculously, she was not. Just when hope had begun to fade, and Morwenna saw the signs of despair come over Elizabeth - for a selfish moment, she had wondered what it was like to have a marriage in which the thought of losing one's spouse could bring such misery - George rallied and the fever broke. Dr Enys pronounced him not completely out of the woods yet, but certainly much better than he had been. It felt as if the whole house let out a sign of relief. 

A day or two later, Morwenna overheard raised voices from the hall and stepped out of the parlour to investigate, leaving the children with their nursemaid.

"I will come in! You would not dare stop me!" The sound of her mother-in-law's voice hit her hard and she faltered, reaching out to grip the back of one of the heavy wooden chairs gathered around the great table; the old oak was solid and reassuring under her hand. Hearing her Ladyship's still familiar tread approaching, she stood up straight. That woman would see no fear or weakness from her now. Not ever again. Lady Whitworth strode in, glancing about disdainfully before fixing her gaze on Morwenna. "Ah, there you are. I have come - "

"I am not interested in why you have come. You can have nothing to say to me that I wish to hear, and I certainly have nothing to say to you."

"Why, you insolent little trollop! How dare you speak to me that way! You - "

"Get out." Morwenna was in no mood to hear any more from this woman.

"What?"

"I said: Get out. You are not welcome here. Not now, not ever. Leave."

"Now you listen to me. You cannot hide behind Warleggan forever. Everyone knows he is gravely ill, and when he dies - "

"My husband is not going to die." Morwenna looked up to see that Elizabeth had appeared on the balcony. She was pale, and had obviously just woken up, but her gaze was fixed steadily on Lady Whitworth. "He will be entirely recovered shortly, and when he is, he will be as displeased by your appalling behaviour as I am. How dare you presume to enter our home? To speak so to a member of our family? Morwenna has told you to go, and I now I say the same. Bridget, Polly - make sure her Ladyship leaves. Whether she does so by her own power or otherwise is up to her."

"Our pleasure, Mistress." Bridget had appeared in the doorway beside Lady Whitworth, and Polly approached from behind Morwenna. Her Ladyship was making outraged noises and, in an act of either sheer arrogance or foolishness or both, stood her ground. Without hesitation, the two servants seized an arm each and began to manoeuvre her towards the door.

"Unhand me! How dare you!"

"Shut up and go or I'll drag ye by yer hair." Bridget snapped, hauling her into the entrance hall. The three women disappeared and there were sounds of a small scuffle before the heavy creaking and bang of the great front door opening and closing.

"Good riddance," muttered Polly when she returned. Morwenna concurred.

~

This crisis had occupied Morwenna so entirely that she had had very little time to dwell upon anything beyond caring for Elizabeth and the children, and her own worry for George. Once the urgency of it had gone, everything else could begin to pile upon her. Chiefly, Osborne returned to her thoughts.

She did not want him there, of course, far from it, but he came nevertheless. In her sleep most of all, leaving her waking panicked and weeping, until she remembered that she was safe in her bed at Trenwith, that her husband was gone and could never do to her again what he did in her nightmares.

Sometimes, during the day, when she walked in the gardens with Elizabeth, or sat reading in the parlour while her cousin played the harp, it was almost as if none of it had ever happened, and it was just like when she had first lived at Trenwith. Then she would go to bed and tense with fear at every creak of a floorboard outside, gripped with a terror that her escape was merely a dream and she would awake back in that house, with Osborne standing at the end of the bed, that look up on his face that she had come to know so well and dread so deeply.

Sadly, it was not merely in her dreams that he continued to haunt her. One day, she returned from a brief walk in the gardens damp from a sudden shower. As she took off her boots in the hall she lost her balance and a footman, acting purely on instinct, reached out to steady her. He had done nothing more than grip her shoulders, and not especially firmly at that, but she jerked away so violently that she clattered painfully into the hall table. Polly fussed, taking her boots, obviously trying to detract from the awkwardness.

"I - I am sorry, Frank. You startled me, is all."

"My apologies, Ma'am."

"Not needed." He nodded, accepting her explanation, but she had noticed him acting especially cautiously around her ever since. She knew that Polly and Bridget had some idea of what her life had been like with the Whitworths, they had visited her often enough on George and Elizabeth's behalf; but, she also knew that they would have not spoken of it to anyone else, so Lord knew what the other staff thought of her. Perhaps they thought she had lost her wits. Sometimes, she wondered if she had. If the Whitworths had managed make her as unstable as they had claimed her to be.

"There's a gentleman here, Ma'am." Morwenna looked up in surprise at Bridget's announcement. She sat by the fire in the parlour, Ursula at her feet. Elizabeth and George - who was still looking rather pale but otherwise much better - had gone for a short walk in the gardens, taking the two boys with them. "It's Captain Yardley."

"Cap - Captain Yardley?" A myriad of emotions assailed her. Her mind had occasionally strayed back to her disorienting meeting with the Captain, and the peculiar, unexpected feelings it had stirred in the back of her mind. Her heart lurched oddly whenever Elizabeth read out a letter from Geoffrey Charles which mentioned his school-fellow's elder brother. On top of everything else which had been plaguing her recently, having him suddenly arrive like this was quite unnerving.

The Captain bowed when he entered, smiling his pleasant smile. In the dark-panelled old parlour, his scarlet coat was strikingly vivid. Morwenna could only half-stand to welcome him, because Ursula, seemingly in fit of uncharacteristic shyness, had taken a tight hold of her skirts. Polly brought them some tea, and they fell into slightly hesitant conversation.

"A detachment of my regiment has been posted nearby. I intended merely to send a note, but when I heard that Mr Warleggan had been taken ill, I thought I might call and ask if there is anything I can do."

"Oh, that is so very kind of you, but George is much recovered, I am happy to say. He and Elizabeth are out walking, in fact, with the other children."

"How glad I am to hear that!" Their eyes met directly as he smiled and Morwenna had to look quickly away. There was a mildly awkward pause, and he cleared his throat. "And, this must be young - Ursula, yes? Good day, young miss, how d'you do? Your brother talks of you very often."

Ursula had been keeping close into Morwenna's skirts, but peeped shyly at the Captain, apparently considering him for a moment, before bursting into delighted giggles.

"Na!" Morwenna reached down and stroked her soft curls, smiling when the baby turned to look up at her.

"You have a son, do you not? John Conan? How does he like his new home?" 

"That is well-remembered, Captain. I believe he is very happy here, having Valentine to play with."

"How nice for him. It can be very lonely, to be an only child." A touch of sadness darted across his expression, and Morwenna frowned.

"But you have two brothers, surely? Percival and his Lordship?" The Yardleys' father, Morwenna had learned, had been the Viscount Hallwood, a title now held by the Captain's elder brother.

"Yes...but there are some years between us all. Walter - Lord Hallwood - was brought up as my father's heir, very close to him. Until Percival was born to my stepmother, I was very much left to my own company." He glanced down briefly at the teacup balanced on his knee, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him. The circumstances were entirely different, but she was far from unfamiliar with loneliness. That did not mean that she could think of any suitable words of comfort, however.

"Ah, Captain Yardley! How kind of you to visit!" George and Elizabeth's arrival saved Morwenna from her loss for words, Valentine and John Conan running in after them, her son clambering up onto her lap and Valentine peering curiously at their visitor from behind Elizabeth. "I am sorry we were not here to greet you."

"Oh," the Captain turned to smile at Morwenna again. "Mrs Whitworth has kindly born my company in the meantime."

 

XXXXXXX

 

Time passed, although Morwenna chiefly found herself marking it by the growth of the children. They were all at an age where they changed every day, Ursula walking and talking more and more, Valentine beginning to learn his letters, Elizabeth reading to them all from Mrs Barbauld. Sometimes, guiltily, she found herself examining John Conan for any resemblance to his father, so much as she knew he could not help it if there were. When she had carried him - and even for a short while after he was born - she had not wanted him, the circumstances of his conception clouding any feeling she may have developed for him. Eventually, however, his innocence and sweetness had stolen her heart, and she had come to realise that she could not blame him for how he came into the world. It was not his choice.

Elizabeth had told her after he was born that John Conan favoured her. At the time, Morwenna had thought this was said merely to comfort her a little, but now it thankfully seemed to be true. John Conan owed a great deal to his Chynoweth ancestry - indeed, she often thought that he resembled her late father. It was especially evident when seen alongside Valentine, who also took after his mother. One afternoon, after a particularly energetic run around the gardens, the two cousins had fallen asleep side by side on the sofa.

"They could almost be brothers, could they not?" Elizabeth said, as she draped a blanket gently over them. "Both true Chynoweths."

It took Morwenna a moment, one morning, to realise what George had said when he addressed her as "Ms Chynoweth". She looked at him in confusion, and then to Elizabeth. Both of them were smiling at her, and she smiled hesitantly back, although she had no notion of what was happening.

"When I was last in London, I was introduced to none other than the Attorney General, Sir John Mitford, who was most diverted to learn that my wife was the niece of his old friend from the Inns, Mr Richard Chynoweth." Richard had been the brother of Elizabeth's father, Jonathan, and cousin to Morwenna's father, Hubert. "So, more recently, when I wrote to him about a matter concerning another of his late friend's nieces, he was most pleased to offer his assistance."

"His assistance with what?" Morwenna could not imagine to what George referred. He pulled a letter from the pile he had been reading at breakfast and handed it to her.

"To obtain legal permission for you to revert to your maiden name...Miss Chynoweth. Permission which also extends to your son." Morwenna read the letter, hardly able to believe it. "Should anyone be foolish enough to ask questions, the official reason is that Chynoweth is a more ancient and prestigious name than Whitworth, and to hold it can only benefit John Conan in the future."

"Oh - Oh, George...I - I don't know what to say." It was certainly true that the name would give John Conan a certain amount of respectability, particularly among the Cornish gentry, but that was not the real reason she was so happy. Nor did she imagine it was the reason George had done this. This severed the final connection with that family who had brought her nothing but agony and suffering. No longer would she have to hold back her instinctive flinch when she was addressed as 'Mrs Whitworth', and her son could grow up even further out of the shadow of his father.

"It was Elizabeth's idea."

"It had been a long while since the Chynoweth family had a true heir. Now, John Conan can be that heir." Elizabeth smiled softly at her, before glancing wryly aside she sipped her tea. "We thought perhaps that you might like to write to Lady Whitworth to tell her."

"Oh," Morwenna replied. "I most certainly would."

~

“Miss Morwenna!” Bridget hurried towards her across the lawn. She had been to town that morning, and was still wearing her coat. “Miss Morwenna!”

“Bridget, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong, Miss.” The corner of the housekeeper’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Lady Whitworth is dead.”

“What?” Morwenna could hardly believe it.

“Yes. Stone dead. According to one of her servants, she received a letter a few days ago which so incensed her as to cause an apoplexy. She held on for a day or two, but died yesterday morning…The Devil’s certainly collected his due with that family.”

“Oh, my.” Morwenna could guess what the letter must have been. For the most fleeting of moments she felt guilty that she had caused such a thing, but then why should she? It was not her fault the woman was so arrogant that her snobbery had killed her. She had been complicit in Osborne’s every abuse of Morwenna, and deserved no sympathy.

After Bridget left her, Morwenna continued her walk, feeling suddenly lighter. Although she knew rationally that Lady Whitworth could do nothing to harm her, the woman had still crouched in the corner of her mind like an evil spider, second only to Osborne in Morwenna’s darkest thoughts. Perhaps, with her Ladyship gone also, Morwenna could begin to properly banish him.  

Putting away her mourning clothes had helped, she thought. Elizabeth had encouraged her to give them up. She wore them only for propriety, but did she truly care if people thought she was not properly mourning her husband? She had loathed him, and it hardly mattered to her who knew it.

So, ignoring a couple of society matrons whispering behind their gloves at each other in the dressmaker’s, she and Elizabeth had ordered her a whole new wardrobe: a beautiful dove-grey pelisse; a riding costume with soft blue skirts and black jacket; day dresses in cream, light brown and even a rich golden-yellow. Morwenna had given away every piece of her old clothing, telling Bridget and Polly to do with it what they liked. She’d seen a dairy-maid on one of the tenant farms wearing an old dress, and thought with some pleasure on how horrified Osborne would have been at a woman of that class wearing something he had paid for.

Picking up the skirts of that new yellow dress, Morwenna picked her way carefully through a more overgrown part of the gardens. She had always liked these wilder parts when she first lived here; where the neatly ordered lawns of the house merged gently with nature. As she came to the old stone archway, cut into a crumbling piece of wall that was likely a remnant of some ancient fortification, a figure appeared ahead of her in the woods. When they came closer, she realised it was someone else from her past – Drake.

“Morwenna!”

“No, Drake – “

“Will ye not speak to me?” He stepped closer and she retreated. Her mind had taken her back to another meeting with him on this very spot, a long time ago. She remembered him kissing her, the thrilling secrecy of it transforming into revulsion and horror as his face and his touch changed in her recollection to those of her late husband, grabbing and pushing and…She shook her head, backing away further, gripping the stone for support. 

“Please – please, go.” She knew what he wanted. He believed they could simply pick up as they had left off. Could he not see that that was impossible? She had closed her mind to him as surely as she closed the lid of that box on his gift to her. Everything had changed now. _Everything_. “I am not – I cannot – Leave me. Please.”

“Morwenna!” She heard him call after her as she turned and hurried back towards the safety of the house. He would not follow her there, although relations between the Carne brothers and the Warleggans had much improved since her marriage, she knew, partly thanks to the efforts of Geoffrey Charles.

Back at Trenwith, in the cool quiet corner of the side hallway, Morwenna let the tears fall from her eyes.  She owed Drake a proper explanation, but how could she put it into words – the horrors that kept coming back to her every time she thought she had pushed them away. How, even if she believed that she felt towards him as she once did, every moment would be overshadowed by Osborne’s evil? She realised it now – no matter her good mood earlier, he would never leave her. All of the new clothes and name changes in the world would never wash her clean of his stain.

“Goddamn you, Osborne.” She whispered. “Goddamn you to Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I promise Drake will get a proper resolution! It'll just take some time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


	3. Chapter 3

As the weeks went by, Captain Yardley visited when his commitments to the regiment allowed. He and George had entered into some sort of business venture together, although Morwenna was not certain of its exact nature. Something to do with George’s shipping business, she thought. That was not the only reason for his calls, however.

He was far from forward, even on the rare occasions they were alone together, but she could not pretend that he had made no indication of his interest in her. How she felt about this seemed to change from moment to moment. Flattery at his polite attentions and the peculiar skip of her heart when he smiled at her would swing instantly into guilt and confusion over the dangling threads of her relationship with Drake, which then usually gave way to thoughts of Osborne and _his_ attentions.

Thus, while she found herself looking forward to the Captain’s visits, she was also half-nervous of them, feeling as if she spent every moment in his company on edge. It was not his fault, of course. He was nothing but kindness and propriety. Besides, how could he have any idea of the dark memories which wreathed around her mind like an evil fog?

One evening, he was invited to dine, and to stay the night before returning to his billet in the morning. It was a pleasant gathering, with Dr Enys and his wife also in attendance. Mrs Enys – she had repeatedly asked Morwenna to call her Caroline, but somehow Morwenna could never quite get into the way of that – was full of sparkling wit as always, and keen to get the measure of the Captain. He and the doctor exchanged a few words regarding their respective military service, but it was clear they were both holding back. Whether to spare their dinner companions distressing details, or out of a lack of desire to speak of it at all, Morwenna did not know.

“That is a fine landscape, Mrs Warleggan. Is it your work?” Captain Yardley was admiring a painting upon the wall behind the head of the table. A view of Trenwith from the east at the height of summer, it sat just below portraits of Geoffrey Charles’ father and grandfather.

“No, indeed.” Elizabeth smiled. “Morwenna painted that for us when she first lived here.”

“You are very skilled, Ms Chynoweth.” It was a small compliment, but delivered with complete sincerity, and it threw Morwenna into confusion once more. Thankfully, and probably unknowingly, Caroline Enys came to her rescue.

“Oh, yes. If Master Geoffrey Charles is to be believed – and I am sure that he is – Ms Chynoweth is our very own Leonardo!”

“She pales in comparison the masters of Harrow, by all accounts.” George smiled. “Which is most comforting for me to think of when I pay the headmaster his bill!”

“Oh, I think Geoffrey Charles’ partiality to me has less to do with the quality of my teaching than the laxity of my discipline.” She caught the Captain’s eye as everyone laughed at her little jest, and she had to look away suddenly, her breath catching.

Later, after the Enys’ had been bidden a fond farewell and the household had chiefly retired to bed, Morwenna looked into the nursery, finding John Conan and Ursula sleeping, but Valentine still awake.

“Can’t you sleep, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want to have bad dreams, Wenna.” Little dark brows creased, and he clutched his soft rag dog tightly.

“What do you have bad dreams about?”

“Monsters.”

“Oh, now monsters aren’t real.” Not the kind that little boys dreamt about, at least. “You just remember that. Your dreams cannot hurt you.”

“Do you have bad dreams, Wenna?”

“Yes.” She stroked his soft curls gently. “Yes. Sometimes, I do.”

She sat with him until he drifted off to sleep, carefully placing his hand on the coverlet and slowly standing so as not to disturb him. With one final look at John Conan, she was about to depart to her own bed when she heard a faint noise outside, like the sound of footsteps on the terrace. Darting over to the window, she peered around the drapes, half-expecting to see some sort of ruffians attempting to break into the parlour casement. Instead, she found the Captain, standing in a small pool of light cast by what candles the servants had yet to extinguish.

He had told of her what he called his ‘military habit’, and she watched as he took a breath of his cigar and blew a small cloud of smoke into the night air. Morwenna had caught the smell of the tobacco on him once or twice – it was a rich, inviting scent. She followed his movements as he strolled casually up and down the terrace. Suddenly, as if he sensed her gaze, he turned and looked up at the window. He likely couldn’t see her in the shadows but she darted away nevertheless, pressing her back into the wall by the window. Her heart pounded, but whether it was in thrill or alarm she could hardly tell.

~

“Are you cold?”

“No, I am quite well, thank you.” There was a chill breeze swirling the fallen leaves, but Morwenna’s jacket kept her quite warm enough as they walked in the gardens. Elizabeth had suggested that Morwenna show the Captain the grounds in their full autumnal splendour. She did not think that her cousin deliberately contrived to leave them alone together – Elizabeth was not a schemer – but as she had acquired her husband’s tendency to opacity, it was hard to say. Neither Elizabeth nor George had made any direct mention of Morwenna’s friendship with the Captain, which she certainly appreciated, but she had seen them exchange a look once or twice when he came up in conversation.

Her feelings towards him still were unclear to her, lost in a maelstrom of memories, doubts and concerns, Drake and Osborne still plaguing her unbidden, although in very different ways.

“I have noticed, Captain,” she began, giving in to some odd compulsion to ask this question, “that you have never offered me condolences for the loss of my husband.”

“I believe that one should only offer sympathy when one feels that a sense of loss is felt.” He glanced sideways at her, as if assessing whether his intuition had been correct.

“You are very perceptive, Captain.” She knew no one would have spoken of it to him, and of course he could not know the worst of it, but apparently he had guessed enough.

“He did not deserve you.” Morwenna could think of no real response to this. At least, not one which would not potentially lead into matters she could not bring herself to discuss. Speaking about Whitworth – even to Elizabeth – was difficult and complicated. Many of the things she felt seemed almost too big for words, or that no words had yet been created to describe them. She chose to avoid answering him.  

“What was Flanders like?” She paused, realising this subject may not be a deal more comfortable for him than mention of her last husband was for her. “If you do not mind my asking.”

“Not at all.” Captain Yardley did not so much as blink at her abrupt change of subject. “I imagine you know that we were forced to retreat to Hanover. It was an ignoble end to the campaign. There were many men – boys, truly – who set out with us from Portsmouth believing they were embarking on a grand adventure. I do not believe that any of those who returned still felt the same.”

“I can only imagine the things you must have seen.” He glanced away for a moment and she felt guilty for making him remember. Before she could attempt to divert the subject again, he spoke.

“I will tell you of something I saw: the Sonian Forest.  Have you heard of it?”

“It is in Belgium, is it not?”

“Yes, indeed. We marched through it for several days. It is like nothing we have on this island. So ancient and majestic.” The wistfulness and wonder on his face and in his voice as he described the beauty and awe of the forest amongst the horrors of war was truly mesmerising. His words made her feel almost as if she were there, under the shady canopy of the trees, hearing the crunch and thump of the soldiers’ boots through the undergrowth and the squeak and rattle of the canons and carts bumping over tree roots and animal burrows. Although he did not mention it, she could imagine too the distant sounds of gunfire and cries of battle, cutting through the great stillness of nature. “You are a lover of nature are you not, Miss Chynoweth?”

“Why, yes.” She did not think she had ever said so directly to him, although they had discussed the landscape of Cornwall, and how it differed from his family’s home in Yorkshire.

“It was not hard to discern, not only from the way you speak, but from your paintings. No one who did not love the world could capture it so beautifully.” He smiled at her as he spoke and she felt her breath hitch. Aside from her landscape of the house, there was one or two other of her pieces at the Trenwith – a sea view from above Hendrawna Beach, sketched on a long-ago illicit visit to Drake with Geoffrey Charles, as well as a scene of Elizabeth’s beloved rose garden in full bloom. She had never shown them to the Captain, so he must have sought them out of his own accord. The thought suffused her with an odd sort of warmth. It was only recently that she had begun to paint again, having barely picked up so much as a pencil during her marriage. Osborne had chastised her for attempting to teach his daughters to draw, and her own desire to create anything had rapidly drained out of her.

“That is very kind of you to say.” She glanced down at her gloved hands, suddenly aware that she was fidgeting with them.  “Is that why you joined the Army? To see the world?”

“Perhaps…” He looked ahead thoughtfully, and for a moment Morwenna took in the effect of the golden autumn light on his profile. “Of, course since I read my father’s copy of Mr Walton’s book a dozen times I originally wanted to be an angler…”

“I have never read Mr Walton.” Morwenna knew of the book, of course. Her father had kept a copy in his library, but it had never been the sort of thing to tempt her as a young girl. “Is he really so persuasive?”

“Oh, indeed! I imagine has inspired many a young man - and perhaps the occasional young lady – “ He glanced at her and she found herself smiling, “to obtain a rod and take themselves off to the nearest river bank.”

“Do you fish? There is a lovely lake at Cardew – George’s family home – which is not often used. I am sure he would be happy for you to spend some time there.”

“He has already made that kind offer, but I am afraid I am unable to accept.” They had come to a stop beside the kitchen garden, lovingly maintained by Bridget and the cook, Mrs Glamis. Captain Yardley looked down at his highly polished boots, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “My detachment has been recalled to the regiment.”

“You – you are leaving?” She felt a peculiar fluttering sensation in her chest, which she realised was a disappointment at the thought of not seeing him again for some time. “When?”   

“On Monday.” That was only three days away! “I should like to return…I have become quite enamoured of Cornwall.”

“ – “ Morwenna was not blind to the underlying meaning of his words, and struggled for a reply.

“While I am away, I should like to – That is, may I write to you?” He regarded her apprehensively, and she saw her own hesitation reflected in his eyes. As he waited for her answer, they seemed frozen in time for a moment. Morwenna took a breath.

“Yes, Captain. You may.”

 

XXXXXXXX

 

_Miss Morwenna Chynoweth_

_Trenwith House_

_Cornwall_   

 

The hand was a fine, strong one, with neat, flowing letters, the ‘y’ in her surname finished with a particular curl to the tail. As soon as Bridget said there was a letter for her she had instinctively known who it was from; Geoffrey Charles was her only correspondent outside of the house, and she had received his latest missive only the previous day. The writing was unmistakably masculine, and she could recognise the Captain in it – the military properness softened by a gentle touch. Further evidence was the package which accompanied it.

She had risen slightly late today, and so was breakfasting alone. George was often up and gone to the Bank long before most of the household had stirred, but Elizabeth had gone with him this morning, wanting to buy some things in Truro. Her cousin had invited her to come, but Morwenna had declined; although she had accompanied Elizabeth once or twice when she needed some new clothes or books, she disliked the bustle of the town, having become very used to quiet and solitude. It may well be her imagination, but she also often felt that she was being looked at and whispered about by those who knew who she was – the abrupt nature of Osborne’s death had naturally created gossip and speculation, especially given Lady Whitworth’s repeated insistences that he had been murdered, a subject about which Morwenna had once plucked up the courage to ask George.

“Do you really care to find out?” He had raised his eyebrows at her over his paperwork and she realised that he was right. What did it matter to her? Osborne was dead and gone – at least physically – how and why was irrelevant.

For now, at least, he was far from her mind as she turned the letter over in her hand, tracing the outline of the seal, the family crest of the Yardleys. It was too small to make out the finer details, but it featured what looked like a large bird and perhaps some sort of rose. The wax came away from the paper with a pleasing snap, and Morwenna unfolded the letter slowly.

A few weeks has passed since the departure of the Captain and his fellow soldiers back to Gloucester, where the rest of the regiment was presently stationed. When no letter had arrived, Morwenna had been torn between disappointment and something that was almost relief. By allowing his letter, what was she doing other than encouraging his regard for her? And what could come of that? Most of all – what did she _want_ to come of it?

_Dear Miss Chynoweth_

_Pray forgive my not writing sooner, but I have had a deal to do since my return to the regiment. I am pleased to report that General Cavanaugh has done the honour of appointing me his_ aide-de-camp, _and so my time has been much taken up by my new duties._

_I hope that I find you well, and that the Cornish autumn is still beautiful enough for you to take your walks, and for little John Conan and his cousins to play in the gardens. There is a fine confectioner here in Gloucester by the name of Lowery – I wonder if the children would perhaps like something from him?_

_As I imagine that matters of military administration are not of much interest to you – they are of no interest to most military men! – I am ashamed to say that I have little other news to share with you. I am sure that life at Trenwith is far more chaotic and interesting, and I must ask for news of it from you, as your cousin Mr Warleggan is most devoted to the subject of business in his correspondence. This is certainly an admirable quality, but it does not make for the most entertaining of letters for a poor soldier!_

_Of course, you will have many letters from Geoffrey Charles, but Percival tells me that they are having a high time at school at the moment. I must say again how pleased I am that your cousin made a friend of my brother. Percival has always been an introverted boy, and his condition did not help him, but I have seen the change in him since he met Geoffrey Charles._

_I imagine – I hope – that you know that it is not merely for Percival’s sake that I am pleased by his connection with Geoffrey Charles. Had they never met, I would never have had the privilege of coming to know your family. Of -_

_I am afraid that I must cut my correspondence short, as I am expected for dinner with the other officers and I will not catch the message boy if I delay any longer._

_Until we meet again, I hope that Mr Walton may inspire you as he inspired me._

_Yours &tc._

_Capt. F. Yardley_

Slipping the paper from the book, Morwenna touched the leather cover gently. This was not a new copy, bought from a Gloucester bookstall. From the slight wear at the corners and the lines down the spine, this was a well-loved volume. That the Captain would send her his own beloved book touched her. The print on the frontispiece was still as bold as the day it had been set:

_The Compleat Angler:_

_Being a Discourse of Fish and Fishing_

_Izaak Walton_

Above the title was the legend _F. Yardley_ , inscribed in a neat but obviously less mature hand than its writer possessed today. When had he acquired his own copy, she wondered? As a student, or as a young officer? She gently touched the browned ink, imagining him in a scholar’s rooms or a soldier’s garrison, neatly inscribing his name on the page.

Looking back at the letter, she brought it close to her face for a moment. Despite the distance it had travelled, the paper still held a lingering aroma of cigars. As she savoured it, she wondered at that cut off ‘Of – “.

~

Gradually, and almost beneath notice, autumn slipped its way into early winter, frost appearing ever more regularly upon the ground in the mornings and biting cold winds turning the sea into a broiling mass. On one of her rare lone trips out of the grounds of Trenwith – she was persistently afraid of encountering Drake, and ashamed of her own cowardice – she had braved the battering of a distantly approaching storm to capture a sketch of waves smashing into the cliffs, spray arcing upwards and curling back against itself. 

Elizabeth had been appalled when she returned damp and windswept, hurrying her in front of the fire and calling for a bath to be drawn, asking her what on Earth she was thinking venturing out in such weather. Morwenna considered the mild discomfort to be quite worth it considering the two watercolours she was able to produce from the sketch, the smallest of which she had – after only some debate with herself – sent to Captain Yardley, on the pretence of his having once noted his admiration of the Cornish seascape.

Their correspondence continued, always polite and proper and yet Morwenna felt a small secret thrill whenever she recognised his hand. Neither George nor Elizabeth had said a word about the Captain beyond matters concerning George’s business with him, but she had seen them exchange glances whenever a letter arrived, or if they were present when she sent one of her own. What precisely they thought, she could not tell, and nor would she ask. To speak of the situation out loud would allow all of her confused, nebulous feelings to pour forth.

Osborne continued to creep uninvited into her mind, although she thought less so. It was only natural, she hoped, for the memories to fade a touch as they moved further into the distance. Whether they would ever disappear entirely was another matter.

She found that by occupying herself she could mostly keep him at bay – during the daylight hours anyhow. Having reawakened her desire to paint, she applied herself to it fully, and had recently embarked on a portrait of Elizabeth, although Valentine and Ursula seemed to have particular objections to allowing their mother to sit still for more than ten minutes at a time.

Mr Walton had also proved as fascinating a companion as the Captain had hoped. Although Morwenna doubted he would make an angler of her, his devotion and passion for his subject was inspiring in many ways. She was pleased to report truthfully her enjoyment of the book to the Captain, whose pleasure at their shared appreciation was clear even in his understated response.

Sometime in November, George announced that he had decided to reinstate the tradition of the Great Trenwith Ball – a grand Christmas party which had once upon a time been held every year by the Poldarks, but had faded away several years since for financial reasons. According to Elizabeth, she believed the last had been held when she herself was only nine or ten years old, as she recalled her parents attending, her mother complaining about the invitations to the estate’s tenants and workers.

“Charles used to invite everyone who lived and worked upon the estate, as well as almost everyone who lived roundabout. I do not know if we could attract so many – everyone holds their own parties now.”

“Well, we shall have to see, won’t we? All of the houses on the estate are occupied now, so there are plenty of tenants who will no doubt be delighted to partake of our fayre.” George smiled. “As for most of our neighbours: aside from the Enyses, whom do we really wish to have in the house?”

“Oh, George, you mustn’t say things like that.” Elizabeth attempted chastisement, but she was smiling behind her wine glass.

“And Geoffrey Charles will be home, along with Master Percival – I believe his doctor has recommended winter in warmer climate than London, for the sake of that chest complaint of his – and perhaps Captain Yardley would like to bring some of his fellow officers. I’m sure the unmarried ladies of the county would be very enthusiastic in that case.”

“George!” Elizabeth laughed this time, batting him gently on the arm, but Morwenna was too distracted taking in exactly what he had said.

“Captain Yardley?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Yes, my dear. He has some leave from his regiment, and as his brother is coming to stay for the season, I thought it only proper to invite him also. The Viscount is at their family home and I understand the weather is not conducive to young Master Percival’s health.”

“I am sure we will all be pleased to see the Captain again.” Elizabeth added mildly, but Morwenna did not miss the glance her cousin gave her, nor could she ignore the fluttering of her own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D


	4. Chapter 4

Since Osborne’s death, Morwenna had found herself taking joy in things she had for some time not been able to. Her painting, for one, along with such other simple things as playing cards and taking tea. Even walking and reading, the only occupations she had been able to take a measure of refuge in during her marriage, had become more fulfilling. Without realising it, she had become almost entirely numb to any feelings beyond despair and pain; Osborne and his mother drained every drop of joy or delight out of the world, turning even its most beautiful things grey and bleak.

How differently she had begun to view life was made clearer by the coming of Christmas. Preparations for their house-guests, and the Ball, began early and in earnest. With George kept as busy as ever, the planning fell to Elizabeth, who determinedly enlisted Morwenna to help. Together, they chose food and decorations and entertainments, and Morwenna could not recall enjoying herself so thoroughly in quite some time.

Along with Bridget and Polly, they ventured out into crisp winter mornings, their boots crunching on ice-tipped grass and their breath swirling around them in clouds. They picked holly and mistletoe and collected pine-cones, filling the house with their fresh, rich scents. The children became livelier, filled with excitement, Valentine and John Conan running the poor nursemaid ragged. Usually, only a stern glance from George could quiet them both, but even the effects of that did not last long and soon they would be off again, George smiling fondly after them. His indulgence of his own children had extended to John Conan, which pleased Morwenna. Although Osborne had made much of having a ‘son and heir’, he had never truly cared for John Conan. He had no capacity for love, not even for his own child.

Geoffrey Charles and Percival arrived a little over a week before Christmas, two days after it had begun to snow steadily. Elizabeth fretted about the state of the roads and the safety of travelling in this weather, but George assured her that carriage and coachmen alike were quite capable of navigating such conditions. He was, as he so often was, proven correct, the boys arriving safely and almost an entire day earlier than expected.

“The snow took half the tiles off the roof of the dining hall and one of the pipes drawing the water for the kitchen pump froze, so the headmaster sent us all home early!” Geoffrey Charles explained, cheerfully. “It was lucky you sent the carriage in such good time, Uncle!”

“Lucky, indeed! That place charges me a fortune and the roof is falling off at a touch of snow? I’ve a good mind to go back with you in the New Year and demand a good look at Hawkins’ account ledgers.” Hawkins was the school’s headmaster and, if George were to be believed, a grasping villain of the first order.

“Misappropriate your funds, Uncle? Who would ever be so foolish?” Geoffrey Charles laughed out loud as George shook his head and Elizabeth tutted, smiling.

“And how are you, Master Percival?” Morwenna asked. The boys had been herded into the parlour and plied with hot chocolate and toast while they warmed themselves by the fire. Although always a reserved young man, Geoffrey Charles’ friend seemed unusually subdued.

“I’m well, Miss Chynoweth, thank you.” He offered her a small smile, before returning his attention to his cup.

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with either of us that plenty of Mrs Glamis’ cooking and Bridget’s chocolate can’t put right as rain.” Geoffrey Charles smiled as he patted Percival on the back, but he could not quite hide the flicker of concern in his eyes when he glanced at his friend. Morwenna knew that Percival suffered from some manner of chest complaint, and according to Geoffrey Charles and Captain Yardley the wet autumn in London had done him rather ill. Although both spoke of it quite plainly in their letters, their concern for him was evident in every word.

Thankfully, Geoffrey Charles appeared to be mostly right. After only a day or two, Percival was considerably brighter. Elizabeth had made certain he was served hearty portions at every meal, and Bridget and Polly pressed tea and scones on him every time he ventured anywhere close to the kitchens.

_“I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas day, on Christmas day…”_ Bridget was quietly singing to herself as she tucked fresh sprigs of holly behind several canvases in the great hall, Polly humming along to snatches of the tune while she held the basket. At the table, Morwenna was attempting to arrange some flowers – fresh from Cardew’s greenhouse – in a vase, while Ursula did her best to grab at every bloom with her little hand.

“Don’t squash them!” The baby giggled, and Morwenna bounced her gently on her knee, lifting the stem out of her reach to slot it neatly in with the others. “Flowers don’t like to be squashed. Can you say ‘flower’? ‘Flow-er’?

“Fl’r!”

“Very good! How clever you are!” Ursula laughed again and clapped her hands, just as Geoffrey Charles, Percival, Valentine and John Conan came tumbling in, bringing a rush of cold air from the front hall. The older boys had taken the younger out for a walk while Elizabeth was out having tea with Ruth Treneglos. Although her cousin had been encouraging Morwenna to socialise more, she had not asked her if she wanted to go to the Treneglos’, for which Morwenna was grateful, as much as she felt mildly guilty at leaving Elizabeth to face Ruth alone.

“Mind yer wet boots on that runner!” Bridget scolded from her perch atop the step-stool, tutting when the older boys looked down at the water dripping onto the rug as if they couldn’t understand how it had come to be there. Meanwhile, Valentine and John Conan were both clambering up onto chairs next to Morwenna in order to see what she was doing.

“Fl’wr!” Ursula said proudly, in response to which Valentine nodded very solemnly as if his sister had some something of great import.

Everyone on the room looked around as the door into the back hallway opened, admitting George, who glanced around with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, I thought from the racket that a herd of wild animals had been set loose in the house; but now I see that it’s merely a mob of unruly boys – which is almost the same thing.”

~

“Captain Yardley has arrived.”

“O – Oh?” Morwenna frowned at herself in the mirror. Elizabeth, apparently concentrating on fixing a jewelled comb into Morwenna’s hair, did not seem to notice the catch in her voice. However, there had been something almost deliberately casual in the way Elizabeth had delivered this particular piece of news.

“There, now…You will be the envy of every young lady here.” Elizabeth squeezed her shoulders gently, smiling. Morwenna examined her reflection, and she had to admit to being just a touch pleased with her appearance. Bar the briefest of glances, she had paid little attention to mirrors for some time. Every look into them during her marriage had shown her someone she did not recognise – a pale, almost grey creature with lank hair and dark circles under her eyes. Now, a much more friendly and familiar young woman looked back her, the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Elizabeth had absolutely insisted that she order a new evening gown. While she had not chosen anything so bold as the vivid red of Elizabeth’s dress, she did like the soft heather of her own, with its silver embroidery and mulberry trim.

“Oh, hardly, Elizabeth!” She smiled at her cousin in the mirror. “For I will not be the one every man in the room is gathered around.”

Elizabeth laughed, shaking her head, just as there was a light knock on the door.

“My dears?” It was George. “Are you ready? May I come in?”

“Almost. And, yes.” George was wearing a rich red coat, as per that peculiar and endearing habit he and Elizabeth had for wearing complementary ensembles. He was also not alone, Ursula’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Now, why are you not asleep?”

“Ursula evidently does not wish to miss the party.” The little girl giggled as George bounced her gently in his arms, Elizabeth smiling affectionately at them both. “Here, my dear, see how lovely your Mama looks…and your Aunt Wenna, of course. How lucky your Papa is to be escorted by such beauties.”

“Oh, George…” Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek. “Ow!”

“Pretty!” Ursula had grabbed a hold of Elizabeth’s earring and pulled, clearly fascinated by the sparkling jewels.

“Yes, my darling, but let Mama go.” Gently, George untangled Ursula’s fingers, whereupon she immediately set about tugging at his collar. “Now, my dears, we must go down or our guests will think us terribly remiss.”

Ursula clung to George’s coat and cried when he handed her off to Dot, the nursemaid, and the sound of Dot’s soothing murmurs to her followed them down the corridor.

As the footmen opened the doors into the great hall, every head in the room turned toward them. Elizabeth, on George’s arm, smiled widely, while Morwenna fought the urge to shy behind her cousins. As George and Elizabeth welcome the first of their guests to approach them, Morwenna caught a flash of scarlet at the edge of her vision. She turned and her eyes met those of Captain Yardley – she heard her own sharp intake of breath, and the ladies and gentlemen milling about between them seemed to disappear as they looked at one another, until he broke the spell by dropping his gaze to bow to her.

It seemed as if every guest at the party wished to make conversation with her, but since none of them were sufficiently impolite or insensitive to ask her about Whitworth or his mother – although she sensed many of them wished to – she spent what felt like hours exchanging bland chatter about the weather and Christmas parties and local gossip.

“Miss Chynoweth.” Morwenna felt almost as if she had been waiting for that greeting all evening.

“Captain. Good evening. Did – did you have a pleasant journey?” Oh, how silly she sounded. Like an empty-headed girl sent all of a-twitter by a handsome soldier.

“Well, the care of the roads leaves something to be desired this time of year, but – “ he smiled softly, “I have always believed that certain destinations are worth even the most arduous travel.”

“Indeed.” That was all the reply she could manage – it was not difficult to infer from his words that the destination he meant was not Trenwith. There was a moment’s pause, before the Captain cleared his throat politely.

“Would you – would you care to dance?”

“I – “ Morwenna internally froze, two opposing feelings coming together in her mind. On the one hand, some part of her wanted desperately to say ‘yes’, to take his hand and let him lead her into the group of dancers. Not far away, George and Elizabeth were completely absorbed in one another as they turned to the music, their hands intertwined. Elizabeth glowed with happiness, the beautiful vibrant skirts of her dress flowing about her legs with every step. Morwenna yearned to be so carefree; and yet, the reel she had danced with Geoffrey Charles earlier had been the first time she had stood up with a man in years. Dancing was yet another thing she had lost her enthusiasm for. There was also the matter of being in such close proximity to anyone, of being touched, and what memories that might bring to the fore.

“Miss Morwenna!” Caroline Enys proved to be her saviour, cutting through her indecision with an enthusiastic greeting, and cheerfully engaging both her and the Captain in conversation. He did not look put out by the interruption, and Morwenna was relieved.

She felt much less conflicted about refusing the few other invitations to dance that she received the rest of the evening. It proved to be rather an enjoyable occasion, nevertheless, although that did not prevent her from slipping out into the crisp night air for a few moments of solitude. There was already a silvery sheen of frost appearing on the tips of bare branches, and her evening slippers crunched softly on the patio.

Before she rounded the corner of the house, the scent of tobacco filled the air, the warmth of it enveloping her, making her smile. As she expected, the Captain stood on the terrace, cigar in hand.

“Oh, Miss Chynoweth.” He turned to her, surprise registering on his handsome face,, before it turned to a frown. “Are you not cold?”

“Not in the least.” She indicated her borrowed shawl, a heavy forest green garment of Elizabeth’s which did not all match her gown, but was keeping her pleasantly comfortable in the frozen air.

“It is a beautiful night, is it not?” With smoke curling around him, and bathed in the glow of the moon, revealed by a cloudless night, he looked almost otherworldly.

“Yes, “ she smiled. “Most wonderful.”

~

After that evening, Christmas seemed to pass in a whirl of shopping and visiting and dinners. Caroline Enys had refused to leave the party without extracting a promise from every resident of Trenwith that they would attend Killewarren’s own festive celebration. That had proven somewhat of an awkward occasion as Ross and Demelza Poldark were also invited.

Morwenna did not understand exactly the nature of the long running antipathy between George and Elizabeth and the Poldarks. Once, when she had first lived at Trenwith, she had asked Geoffrey Charles, who had explained that George and Captain Poldark’s mutual dislike dated back to their schooldays, but that even he did not know why Elizabeth disliked her former cousin-in-law. Geoffrey Charles had looked consternated for a moment before saying only that he believed ‘something dreadful’ had happened. Having seen how clearly any mention of the man distressed George and Elizabeth, Morwenna had never asked them. It was not her business.

Her own impression of Ross Poldark was not especially favourable. He had glanced at her with evident distaste at their first introduction – when she had attended that party at Tehidy with the Warleggans barely a month after her arrival at Trenwith. She had eventually realised that it was simply because she was friendly with George and Elizabeth. That had been virtually her entire interaction with him for some time, even after her acquaintance with Drake had begun.

He had not endeared himself to her further on that day he forced his way into Trenwith when George and Elizabeth were absent. His use of Mrs Enys to gain entry, and his manhandling of Bridget when she attempted to bar his way did him no credit. For an unnerving moment, Morwenna had thought she was to be seated next to him at Killewarren, but he passed her to sit further up, out of her sight. His wife was not so hidden, however, and kept shooting Morwenna dark looks from the opposite end of the table. She seemed to be offended on behalf of her brother, although that was something considering she had told Morwenna to break with him in the first place, advice Morwenna had rather suspected she had given because of how inconvenient she and Captain Poldark found the matter. At least George and Elizabeth had appealed to Morwenna to consider what was best for both her and Drake, and had later expressed their regret for interceding at all.

Although she felt a touch mean for it, she had taken a small measure of satisfaction in the look of affront on Captain Poldark’s face when Geoffrey Charles cut his approach after dinner. In the end, Elizabeth had pleaded illness as an excuse for them to take an early leave, despite the obvious disappointment on Mrs Enys’ face.

Captain Yardley had been invited but demurred, instead taking Percival to visit an old school friend of his who was staying with family two towns over. Morwenna found her mind wandering toward him several times during the evening, wondering what he was doing, who he was talking to. The two brothers had not returned until Christmas Eve, and Morwenna’s delight at seeing them again was greater than she had expected.

Christmas Day itself was full of entertainments. They had all trailed to church in fresh-fallen snow, Rev Odgers frowning at the pools of water growing around his parishioners’ feet. Church-going was yet another thing which Morwenna’s marriage had left her with complicated feelings towards. Every week she had listened to Osborne preaching morality from his pulpit, knowing better than anyone what a degenerate monster he was, and how every word that pissed his lips was hypocrisy of the worst kind. However, standing between Elizabeth and Geoffrey Charles, she felt herself smiling as the congregation raised their voices to fill the cold stone chapel with the words of _I Saw Three Ships_.

“You have a charming singing voice, Miss Chynoweth.” Captain Yardley complimented her on the walk home.

“You are kind, Captain. And you were in fine voice, yourself, if I may say.” She had particularly noticed his strong tenor coming from the pew behind.

“Thank you.” He looked faintly, and endearingly, embarrassed by her praise, which she had almost surprised herself by offering so unguardedly. As they walked together through the snow, she caught Elizabeth glancing back at them before whispering something to George.

That was not the only speculative look Elizabeth had given her that day. After the unwrapping of gifts, the children naturally delighted in their toys, eager to play with them instantly. Geoffrey Charles and Percival had of course joined in, encouraging the noise and chaos, George and Elizabeth smiling at them indulgently.

Captain Yardley, in his spotless uniform, knelt upon the carpet to help John Conan line up his new wooden animals two by two, as if they were trooping toward the ark.

“And what is this one?”

“A wolf!” John Conan cried, and the delight upon his face moved Morwenna deeply.

“Yes. Have you ever seen a wolf?”

“No.” The little boy shook his head, frowning.

“No, they do not live in England anymore; but, I have seen them.”

“Where?!”

“In the mountains, where it is cold and bitter all the time, even more than it is today. They are beautiful creatures. Fierce and strong.” Her son was enraptured, and Morwenna felt much the same, until she glanced up to see Elizabeth watching her with a curious sort of smile playing about her lips. Embarrassed at she did not quite know what, Morwenna busied herself with her new book.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for this chapter - it does mention the death of a child. It seems I can't stop piling on the suffering.

“Are you sure you will not join us, Elizabeth?” Caroline Enys tilted her head appealingly, the feather decoration on her shako hat fluttering in the breeze.  

“Thank you, but no. I’m not feeling my best, and I do not think flying across the countryside on horseback will do me any good! I shall be quite content here, as Master Percival has kindly agreed to keep me company.” She patted Percival’s arm gently where she had taken it, and he smiled shyly. He was dressed in a warm coat and muffler, ostensibly just to see the riders off, but Morwenna knew that both it, and Elizabeth’s excuse, masked the truth.

As much as a Cornish winter might be warmer than a Yorkshire or even a London one, the recent cold and snow had done Master Percival little good. She had heard him coughing during the night, and servants hurrying to and fro with possets and warm water and extra blankets – her offers to help had been kindly rebuffed. She’d also heard Captain Yardley’s voice, and George’s, murmuring quietly together. The last time George had visited the boys at school, he had arranged for a noted physician from Harley Street to see Percival, but Geoffrey Charles’ letter on the subject had not indicated the outcome of this appointment.

Morwenna knew from the Captain that Percival’s complaint had been subject to numerous treatments over the years – the Captain himself had taken the boy to Bath to visit the Mineral Water Hospital, apparently also to little avail.

“He will grow out of it, I’m sure,” Elizabeth had said. “There was a stable boy at Cusgarne with a similar complaint when I was a girl, and he’s a coachman for Lord Stavely now. You’d think he’d never been ill a day in his life.” Morwenna sincerely hoped her cousin’s prediction was right.

Today, however, it was the pretence of illness on Elizabeth’s part which kept him at home. Her cousin had confided in her that she _had_ been feeling a touch out of sorts the night of the Killewarren party, but it was naught to do with any malady – Elizabeth was with child again. Her sheer happiness when she told Morwenna the news had been wonderful to see.

After George bade Elizabeth farewell with a kiss, the party headed out towards Giry House – Sir Hugh Bodregun’s home – from where the hunt was to officially depart. The Enys’ had stopped at Trenwith on their way from Killewarren. Morwenna had only participated in one hunt in her life prior to this; during her first stay at Trenwith, Elizabeth and George had persuaded her to accompany them on the Boxing Day party. How long ago that seemed now! Geoffrey Charles, much to his disappointment, had been too young to join in last time, but now rode alongside her; a smart young man in his dark blue riding coat. Ahead of them George was absorbed in conversation with Caroline Enys – or rather, he was listening intently to her as she told an apparently quite involved story, which necessitated letting go of her reins with one hand and waving it expansively. Dr Enys and Captain Yardley brought up the rear of their little group and, when Morwenna realised that she had been unconsciously adjusting the set of her hat, she crossly chastised herself for acting like a silly girl.

Despite the cold, a large group of villagers had assembled at Giry to see off the hunt, including a few people Morwenna recognised. One young fair-haired woman waved enthusiastically at Dr Enys but frowned and looked down when Morwenna smiled at her. She had never seen the girl before so far as she could recall, so she could not imagine what could have inspired such a reaction.

However, the flicker of hurt was easily forgotten once they had departed. It took a little time for them to build up speed, but soon the horses were galloping across the frozen ground, powdery snow flying around them. The rush of the cold wind across her face, loosening her hair, was exhilarating, and Morwenna shared a grin with Geoffrey Charles when he glanced back and caught her eye. Behind, someone gave small whoop of excitement as the party leaped a ditch. Although there was no sign of a fox, the dogs still barked excitedly, diving into hedges and weaving in and out of the tree line.

Up ahead, the leaders of the group – Sir Hugh, as hunt master, followed closely by George, Mrs Enys, Ruth Treneglos and Sir Francis Bassett – slowed their horses to a canter and turned into the woods where the trees were sufficiently spaced as to allow riders to pass comfortably between them. Morwenna followed suit, her mount responding smoothly and effortlessly to her commands. Elizabeth and George had told her that she was free to ride any horse in the stables, and she had grown fond of a gentle Cleveland bay named Asper. Although he was not naturally a hunter, he seemed to be enjoying himself today, driving eagerly forward when she gave him his head.

They descended a light slope into a ravine, the brook strong and wide this time of year, but not too deep to cross. However, before Morwenna reached the water, a large bird shot out of the undergrowth, right across Asper’s field of vision. He shied, not quite rearing back, but jolting hard to enough to destabilise Morwenna in the saddle. Whether it was the cold or the damp or simply misfortune on her part, she was unable to get a proper grip on the reins to steady herself and, before she knew it, the world was tilting alarmingly to one side. She hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her, instinctively covering her head as the riders following her pulled up their own horses hard.

“Morwenna!” Strong hands took hold of her, and she was aware of someone next to her, shielding her from blows which thankfully never came. Although her protector had called her by her Christian name, it was neither George nor Geoffrey Charles. George had been at the head of the party, already across the stream when Morwenna fell, and he appeared in the corner of her eye as she struggled to sit up, still gently supported by who she now realised was Captain Yardley. He knelt beside her, his handsome face shadowed by alarm and concern. “Are you hurt?”

“Miss Chynoweth? Are you injured?” Dr Enys appeared beside her.

“No more than my pride, I do not think.” She was certainly winded, and felt rather battered, but she had no great pain anywhere, and she had not hit her head. Her shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact, but was well protected by her thick riding jacket. She let the doctor examine her arm, gently manipulating the joint her and there. He pronounced it no more than bruised, although advised her not to ride back.

“We’re not far from Shanks Farm.” George took charge, as he was wont to do, elbowing aside a dithering John Treneglos. “Geoffrey Charles, can you ride there and ask Mr Pirton to lend us his cart?”

“Yes, Uncle.” He swung into the saddle, neatly wheeling his horse around and setting off back the way they had come.

“It is not the finest mode of transport, my dear, but it will have to do for today.” George smiled at her as the doctor and the Captain helped her to her feet.

“Oh, there is really no need for any fuss – And certainly not to bring the hunt to an end. I am quite all right, really.” She smiled encouragingly, doing her best to stand up straight despite the stiffness in her side.

“I will escort you back to Trenwith, if I may, Miss Chynoweth.” Captain Yardley now stood at a respectful distance.

“That is kind of you, Captain, thank you.” Out of politeness, she should perhaps have refused, but could not quite manage it somehow.

“I should like to take a proper look at you, Miss Chynoweth. Just to make sure you are not injured more severely. Sometimes, these things are not obvious at first glance.” Dr Enys glanced back. “Perhaps Mr Warleggan would be kind enough to escort my wife home if I accompany you?”

“Of course.” Geoffrey Charles arrived with Mr Pirton and his cart in impressively short order, and Morwenna was helped up the slope and onto the surprisingly comfortable bench seat. It was not until they were home and she was being fussed over by Elizabeth and Bridget that she realised how close the Captain had been to her. His body had covered hers protectively as she lay on the ground, and nothing in her had recoiled even so much as an inch.

~

When the Captain left to return to his regiment a few days later, bidding her a polite farewell with a soft smile, Morwenna stood in the great hall and watched him ride away until the bright red of his coat had completely disappeared into the distance. Although she was certainly saddened to see him leave, knowing their only contact would be by letter for who knew how long, she still could not reconcile her emotions beyond that. Finding out from Bridget that the Captain had left her a parcel did nothing to help her, especially when, upon undoing the ribbon and opening the silver-embossed box, she found it contained a beautiful cameo brooch, depicting the Three Graces, their flowing tunics and entwined hands exquisitely depicted by the artist. Touching the relief gently, she sighed. Her own feelings may be obscure to her, but the Captain’s certainly were not.

His letters remained as polite and personable as ever, and yet with every one she read, and every equally friendly reply she wrote, her guilt grew. She was giving him no encouragement, and yet she was not doing the opposite either.

Thankfully, she had many other things with which to occupy her mind. Or rather, with which to distract herself from her seemingly intractable confusion. With her portrait of Elizabeth complete, to effusive and most warming praise from both its subject and others, she had embarked upon another of the children. This proved to be an even more trying endeavour, considering the boys in particular were disinclined to sit still even at the best of times. Ursula was more amenable to bribery of sweets and her favourite doll, so her section of the portrait was nearly complete, while Valentine and John Conan remained sketched outlines.

Plenty of time was also taken up by preparations for the new baby, including re-decorating the nursery, and making arrangements for Valentine, as the eldest, to have his own room. Morwenna helped Elizabeth crochet a new blanket for the babe, in a soft moss-green colour.

“This child will be rather spoilt, I fancy.” George commented with smile, bending to kiss Elizabeth on the forehead as they worked.

“Now, you are in no position to talk of _spoiling_ ,” Elizabeth replied, eyebrows raised teasingly, making George laugh softly. “There now, what do you think?”

“Quite charming, my dear. Our little one will be most comfortable.”

“I image it will be ready for your return from Penzance.” George was going away for a few days to see an elderly client of the Bank. He had fretted about being away from home while Elizabeth was expecting, but she had assured him repeatedly that he need not worry.

As soon as Morwenna was awakened by Polly banging on her bedroom door in the middle of night, she knew at once that Elizabeth had been proven dreadfully wrong. A heavy sense of dread immediately settled upon her.

“’Tis the baby, Miss Morwenna. It’s coming!” She could see from the maid’s face that she knew what Morwnna also knew – it was too soon. Far too soon.

“No, no, no…” Elizabeth cried softly into Morwenna’s shoulder as she held her tightly, waiting for what seemed hours for Dr Enys to arrive. The look on his face when he did told Morwenna everything.

George had been out of the house when Ursula was born, too, and Morwenna remembered running out onto the landing to greet him with a wide smile. This time, she met him in the great hall, her eyes still red-rimmed and wet with tears. He stopped short when he saw her, his smile of greeting dropping instantly from his face.

“Oh, dear God, no…”

~

It was a fine spring day on which the household of Trenwith stood by as that painfully tiny coffin was placed into the Earth. The sunshine seemed almost cruel to Morwenna – it had rained the day of Osborne’s funeral, as if Mother Nature alone lamented his death, and yet she did not cry for the loss of that tiny baby boy, who had never taken a breath in this world.

 It was detestable to her also that he could not be buried in a churchyard alongside his family, that he must remain here alone for eternity. What did it say for the world that men like her husband could be laid to rest with all of God’s ceremony, and yet the most innocent of all were denied it? The place George had chosen – Elizabeth was not in the right mind to think of such things – was beautiful. When the season moved on, it would be eventually covered in fallen blossom; but still, it was not fair.

Elizabeth clung to George silently as Bridget murmured a prayer. Rev Odgers was not permitted to attend, as he was the one who had refused the child a place on consecrated ground. Morwenna had never seen George so furious as when he returned from his meeting with the vicar, an anger which she entirely shared.

There were few other mourners beside the household, save George’s Uncle Cary, who looked unusually genuinely distraught; his mother’s old friend Mrs Nanskervis, and Dr Enys. The doctor was pale and grave, which Morwenna initially attributed to distress at being unable to save the babe, until with horror at her own carelessness of thought, she recalled that it was not so long since he himself had lost a child.

“I wish there was more I could have done.” He murmured quietly to her as he took his leave later. There had been no wake, as such. Elizabeth had disappeared to her rooms immediately after the burial, George excusing himself to follow her not long after. Polly had served tea, her hands shaking as she held the pot, her mouth pinched to hold back her own upset. No one was inclined to stay for long, Cary and Mrs Nanskervis both leaving after only a few perfunctory sips. The doctor had not lingered much longer, kindly asking Morwenna how she was feeling, and after the children.

“There was nothing you could have done.” Morwenna wrapped her shawl more tightly around her, feeling chilled despite the sunshine outside. “He was not meant for this world.”

~

Mist still clung to the trees when she slipped out of the back door a few days later. It was just after dawn, much earlier than she might normally have risen, but sleep had not come easily to her recently.

George and Elizabeth had retreated into their shared grief, spending their time shut away together in their rooms. Bridget took them breakfast and dinner, but Morwenna saw the trays return barely touched. She worried for them both, but did not wish to interfere in their mourning. She could only imagine how they must be feeling. Whenever John Conan came to her, she held him especially tightly, pressing her face into his soft hair. She was sure that her torment when she had been separated from him must pale in comparison to what George and Elizabeth were experiencing.

Valentine and Ursula were deeply affected by their parents’ sadness, asking often after them. Only the previous evening, Valentine had asked Morwenna when the new baby was coming, and the question had hit her hard. How could she possibly explain to him? He was only five years old, what age was that to know of death? Fortunately, Polly had brought dinner to the nursery just at that moment and Morwenna was able to distract him, but he could not be put off forever.

Not caring about the dew-soaked grass, Morwenna knelt by the little grave, placing the bluebells on the still fresh earth. The flower stalks were almost as long as the cut. There was no headstone as yet, but the place was marked with a wooden cross, etched carefully by one of the estate labourers.

_Christopher Warleggan_

That was the name George and Elizabeth had given the child while Elizabeth still carried him. It was to be Christopher for a boy, or Phoebe for a girl. Morwenna pressed her lips to her gloved fingers and then touched their tips to the rough letters.

Something crunched in the trees beside her and she started. A man emerged into the light, dressed all in black, a round-brimmed hat clutched in his hands. In the glare of the rising sun, it took Morwenna a moment to recognise Samuel Carne.

“Forgive me, Miss Morwenna. I did not expect anyone t’be ‘ere.”

“You startled me, is all.”

“I did ‘ear about th’ child and I did think to say a prayer for ‘im.” While no one in the house would spread the news as idle gossip, she knew that Bridget and Polly were both acquainted with Sam and Drake. Polly even attended the elder’s Methodist meetings on occasion. A few years ago, George would never have permitted such a thing, but she knew now why his feelings towards the Carne brothers had been so altered. Geoffrey Charles had spoken up for them, of course, but after putting aside her reservations to simply come out and ask George, he had told her that Drake and Sam had done him a great service.

Shortly after Morwenna’s marriage to Whitworth, there had been a terrible fire in the stables at Cardew, after one of the horses had kicked over discarded lamp. Drake and Sam had been walking nearby and immediately rushed both to help and to raise the alarm. Thanks in great part to their bravery and quick-thinking, all but two of the horses had been saved, and every one of the men, including a young stable boy who Drake himself had risked his life to rescue from the flames.

“I have spent my entire life resenting those who judged me for my family, and yet I made a grave mistake by doing the very same to them.” George had told her, with unusual candour. “Despite my coldness towards them, they did not hesitate to put themselves in jeopardy to save my servants. I thought ill of them because of who they have no choice but to be connected with; they have proved themselves to be far better men.”

This was no surprise to her, of course. She knew they were both good and kind and true, as little as she had ever had to do with Sam. He proved it by coming here today, and deliberately doing so when he believed he would not disturb anyone.

“That is good of you. I know Elizabeth and George would appreciate it.” She smiled gently at him, and he returned it bashfully, still twisting his hat. “Please, do not let me prevent you.”

“Thank ‘ee.” He took another step forward, and bent his head. Morwenna stayed kneeling, clasping her hands on her lap. Sam spoke softly, but with deep feeling:

“ _God of all mystery, whose ways are beyond understanding, lead us, who grieve at this untimely death, to a new and deeper faith in your love, which brought your only Son Jesus through death into resurrection life. We make our prayer in Jesus' name. Amen_ ”

There was a pause after he finished speaking, the only sounds the waking songs of the birds and the faintest rustle of the breeze through still bare branches. Morwenna sniffed and wiped away the tears which had begun to gather in her eyes. Sam’s faith was true and deeply moving, his sorrow for this tiny child who had never lived and who he had never known clear in his words. She pressed her hand to her chest for a moment before rising, ignoring her damp skirts clinging to her lower legs.

“Thank you for that – Sam.”

“’Tis what little I can do.”

“I must go – “ Someone would be rising shortly at house, and she would soon be missed, especially when the children awoke. She curtsied a little before turning to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Will ye not speak to him?” He did not need to say who he meant. They both knew. Morwenna looked back at him. His eyes appealed to her, and in that moment he looked far too much like his brother.

“I cannot – “

“I’m sure ye have yer reasons to refuse him. That is yer right and I don’t presume ter question it. But – do he not deserve an explanation? It torments ‘im every day, every moment, I fear.”

“He has had all the time in world to forget me.”

“’E was t’be married. On the day of yer husband’s funeral. When he learned ye were free, he did call off the wedding.” Oh Lord. She remembered his smart clothes the day he had come to the house – and the girl who had looked at her so oddly at the hunt. Was she the one Drake had jilted? All because of her.

“I never meant –“

“I know ye did not. ‘Tis not yer fault, but ‘is heart is broken. And it breaks _my_ ‘eart t’see it.” He looked down. “Ye are a good woman, and I know ye would not wish ‘im pain. If ye can give him any peace, I beg ye t’do so.”

He nodded to her respectfully, before turning and disappearing back into the woods. Morwenna stood staring at the place he had left for a moment, the splash of the bluebells on Christopher’s grave bright in the corner of her vision.


	6. Chapter 6

To his credit, George merely raised a quizzical eyebrow at her when she asked him if he knew where Drake now lived – of course, he had far more important things upon his mind. Morwenna did not know why, but Drake had moved from the forge at the edge of Trenwith land some time ago. She suspected Ross Poldark had only granted it to him in an attempt to antagonise George, a provocation he had ignored given his much altered opinion of Drake.

“He is on the Sawle road now, close to the cliffs. It is not on Nampara land, but many of those who live nearby are loyal to Ross – I do not know how happy they will be to see you. Perhaps Polly should go with you.”

“No, it is better that I go alone. No one would dare harm me.”

“They would answer to me if they did.”

She stood on the top of the rise overlooking the forge for a while before Drake noticed her. Watching him work, all of her feelings of guilt and shame at her lack of thought for him came back to her, mixed with the distant memories of their romance. How innocent and hopeful they had both been. The look on his face when he saw her only worsened her sorrow. Silently, she met his eyes for a moment and then turned and walked away, trusting that he would follow.

He made no attempt to catch up with her, but all the way along the headland and down the sand dunes she heard his steady step behind her. It seemed only right that she should bring him here, to end things where they had begun. The tide was out, yards of silvery beach stretching out ahead of her when she finally came to a stop. Drake halted a few paces away, clearly sensing she did not wish him to come closer.

“I am sorry that I did not come sooner.” She realised now that she was not sure she had the right words for what she wanted to say.

“No, ‘twas wrong of me to expect so much of ye. It was too soon; he was still yer husband – “

“No.” How to explain to him? She could tell him everything, tell him what Osborne had really been, but to speak of it now would re-open the box she had just about managed to force all of those memories and horrors and nightmares into. “No, Drake. I think you know what I have come to say.”

“Morwenna – “

“What we had was…beautiful, and true, but it is over now.” He began to shake his head, but she hurried to continue, before he could argue. “Happy as we were, try as we might, we cannot go back.”

“Because – “ He swallowed. “Because ye love another.”

“So do you.” His statement had taken her by surprise, but no immediate refusal came to her lips.

“I – “

“I know you will say that you love me, but you do not. The Morwenna that you loved – who _loved you_ – is gone. Osborne killed her as surely as he is dead himself, and she will never return.”

“But – “

“The past is another time, another life. And it cannot be re-lived.” Drake shook his hand, tears gathering in his eyes, but she could see something else behind his heartbreak. “I know you know that I speak the truth. I see it in your face.”

“I – Oh, God!” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “It’s been s’long, but I could not help but still ‘ope. I know yer words are true and yet – I ‘ave been such a fool, and I ‘ave done a good woman a great wrong because I tried t’ cling onto a shadow.”

“Go to her!” Once upon a time, it would have torn Morwenna apart to even think of Drake with another woman, but now her urging was sincere. It was her fault that he had suffered so, because she had been too cowardly to speak plainly to him, and she wished to correct that so far as she could. “It may not be too late for you.”

“No. She does deserve better. I did ‘er wrong, and I must pay the price fer it.”

Morwenna knew she had no more to say, and to linger would only prolong the pain for both of them. Her heart may not be broken, but that did not mean she felt no sorrow – for Drake, for what might have been between them, and for his intended who had suffered through no fault of her own. She extended her hand, offering him the item she had retrieved from the bottom of her jewellery box that morning. As she’d tucked it into her sleeve, she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror, the cameo brooch affixed to her jacket, half-hidden by scarf. That single reflection seemed to encompass every one of her confused emotions and she’d turned away quickly, striding out of the room.

“No,” Drake took in the shell bracelet as it fluttered in the wind, “ye should keep that.”

“Take it,” she urged. “Give it to someone who can love you the way you deserve.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out and took it, their fingertips barely brushing. He closed his own hand over it, holding it close to his body. As if he had decided something, he nodded.

“I wish ye every happiness, Morwenna.”

“And I you.” She managed a smile. “Goodbye, Drake.”

“Goodbye.” He returned her smile, not that wide, boyish grin that had so charmed her, but a sad, soft curl of his lips. She turned to walk away, heading towards the dunes in the opposite direction from which they had approached. When she reached the top, she took a deep breath and set out to return home. She did not look back.  

 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“I have some business I must attend to in London,” George announced over breakfast a few weeks later. He and Elizabeth had only fairly recently started coming down for meals on a more regular basis, and Morwenna had been pleased to see a little light back in both of their eyes. What they had suffered was not easily put aside – if it could ever be – but to see it weigh them both down so heavily had been most distressing. She had come to think of them both – George especially – as unshakeable; they had given her strength when she needed it, and she must do the same for them. “I have been putting it off but now I am afraid it is unavoidable.”

“Oh, but must you go?” Elizabeth’s face fell, her lips curving downward sadly.

“I must, my love.” He placed his hand gently over hers on the table. “But what I was going to say is that I think we should all go.”

“All?”

“Yes,” he managed a small smile. “I think perhaps that the…distractions of London would do us all some good. We’ll take the children, of course. Geoffrey Charles will be pleased to be able to visit more often, I’m sure.”

“Oh…” Elizabeth smiled, tentatively, almost as if she were not quite certain of how to do it. Morwenna was not unfamiliar with that sensation. “Yes, I – I think that I would like that. I am sure we will find plenty to do, won’t we, Morwenna?”

“Oh – I – “Somehow, it had not occurred to Morwenna that she was expected to join them. “I don’t think George meant – “

“Of course I did, my dear. Did you think I intended for us to leave you behind? Rattling around this place by yourself?” George frowned slightly.

“But you _must_ come!” Elizabeth’s eyes pleaded with her across the table. Of course, while George was occupied with business, Elizabeth would be left alone if Morwenna did not come. But Morwenna had never been to London before – she had never been out of Cornwall. For all his talk of their ‘honeymoon’, Osborne had never taken her anywhere; not that she would have wished him to. She had dreamed often of the freedom of travel but, now that the possibility was so near at hand, she found herself instinctively shying from it. A city of hundreds of thousands of people; all that hustle and bustle surrounding her…And yet, would they not all be strangers? They would have no idea of who she was, of who she had been – there would be no cause for them to glance at her with either sympathy or curiosity, to whisper behind their fans, looking at her when they thought she could not see.

“Of course I will come.”

Preparations began the very next day, Polly helping Morwenna decide which clothes she wanted to take – despite George having said that both she and Elizabeth would be able to buy themselves whole new wardrobes in Town.

“We’re going to London.” Morwenna smiled at John Conan, who sat cross-legged in a pile of dresses and jackets and skirts, his little hands running over soft linen and cotton in fascination.

“Lon – don.” He repeated, pulling an old blue shawl over his head and giggling.

“Get ye little backside off yer mother’s best dress, ye scamp.” Morwenna could not help but laugh as Polly hauled him to one side, the boy wriggling and squealing delightedly.

“Come along,” Morwenna untangled him from the shawl and picked him up, almost overbalanced by how heavy he had become. He was growing so much, such strength in his small arms. Letting Polly continue packing, she carried him along to the nursery, where Valentine and Ursula were playing with the nursemaid, Dot, and not getting in amongst their parents’ things. With a kiss on the head, she left him stacking brightly-coloured wooden blocks with his cousins, intending to return to her room, but she was waylaid by Bridget appearing on the landing ahead of her.

“Oh, Miss Morwenna, ye’ve a visitor.” She pursed her lips. “’Tis Mistress Poldark.”

“Demelza Poldark?” Morwenna knew no other Mistress Poldark, but her response was reflective of her surprise. Why was she here?

“Yes, Miss. Shall I send her away?” Bridget’s expression suggested she would rather like to do that, but Morwenna shook her head.

“No, I’ll come down.” She followed Bridget down the stairs, the housekeeper stationing herself respectfully – and protectively – at the door as Morwenna entered. Demelza Poldark had not been invited into the parlour and offered tea. Instead, Bridget had left her standing slightly awkwardly by the opposite end of the long table in the great hall. Morwenna stayed at her end, resting her hand on the back of George’s chair. “Mistress Demelza.”

“Morwenna – “ She felt an instinctive prickle of annoyance at being addressed with such familiarity by a woman she did not know  - they had shared only a single conversation, and that on hardly friendly terms. “Will you not reconsider Drake. He – “

“He did not send you here.” Morwenna’s irritation flared brightly into anger. “He would never be so arrogant.”

“I – “

“It seems now that it suits you – and your accursed husband – I must take your instruction to marry Drake, instead of break with him as you wished before, because it was most convenient for you.” Mistress Poldark looked alternately chastened and defiant, but Morwenna continued before she could reply. “If not for your interference, Drake would have been married to another woman, and have quite put me aside.”

“ – “ Mistress Poldark struggled for words, evidently taken aback that Morwenna knew about her intercession in Drake’s engagement to Rosina Hoblyn. Polly had furnished her with the full details – gleaned from Miss Rosina herself.

“I will not justify myself to you, or to anyone. I have spoken to Drake, and that is the end of it.” She made to walk away, but the other woman found her voice at last.

“Whatever my advice…’twas kindly meant.”

“Yes,” Morwenna replied as she turned toward the door. “I am sure that you believe that.”

~

The journey to London was a pleasantly swift one, the roads dry and firm in the clement late spring weather. Morwenna was almost equally as enchanted by the sights as the children, admiring landscape and architecture she had never seen before. They stayed an extra night in Exeter so Elizabeth could recover from a migraine – the kindly maids at the inn draping the windows with cloth to filter out the bright sunlight. While George sat with her, and Bridget watched the children, Morwenna ventured out into the unfamiliar streets, capturing sketches of the old timber-framed building leaning together over the streets as if trying to let their inhabitants whisper to one another, as well of the river which named the city, and the ancient bridge which crossed it. From a street vendor, she bought nuts and gingerbread, and perused the stock of an ancient bookseller’s, the stooped old gentleman behind the counter beaming at her when she took the wrapped parcel of two of the latest sensational novels. Morwenna wondered if she had managed to beat Geoffrey Charles to their purchase – the booksellers of Grosvenor Street acquired a great deal of the boy’s allowance.

On the way back to the Inn, she stopped to inhale the rich, dark scent filling the air outside of a coffee house – the bitter aroma of the drink mingled with tobacco. The latter brought Captain Yardley suddenly to mind, and she shook her head, moving on apace. How she loathed the confusion she felt for him. She had not denied it when Drake accused her of loving another man – in the moment, she had accepted it as the truth. And yet – did she love the Captain? Did she have any real notion of what love was? Once upon a time, she would have sworn that she loved Drake – and she still believed she had – but more and more as time went it seemed more a girlish infatuation given greater import by its forbidden nature. Her feelings for Drake had certainly been true, but perhaps they had not been quite so deep as they had seemed at the time. Whatever they were, they mattered not now – her mind was occupied with another man entirely.

The London townhouse George had taken was magnificent, with its flawless light stone and finely crafted columns. Valentine pulled his hand out of Elizabeth’s to run ahead into the parquet-floored reception hall, stopping to stare wide-eyed up at the high ceiling, light streaming in through the glass above.

“Oh, George, it’s beautiful!” Elizabeth smiled, more genuinely than Morwenna had seen her do in weeks. George raised her hand to his lips and led them through into an exquisitely decorated parlour and dining room.

“Birds!” John Conan declared, pointing at the exotic gold-tipped plumage of the creatures dancing across the wallpaper.

“Yes, young man.” George smiled at him gently, bouncing an equally enraptured Ursula in his arms. “Now, if you boys come through here…”

“Oh!” Valentine cried out excitedly at the sight of rocking horse in the corner of the next room, running ahead to clamber onto its back. Next to it was an equally lovely wooden carousel.

“I thought that John Conan might still be a little small for a rocking horse.” It took Morwenna a moment to realise George’s meaning.

“Oh, no, George, we can’t possibly – “

“Nonsense.” George replied, firmly. “And I do not think John Conan is quite so hesitant.”

“No, it seems not.” Morwenna watched her son laugh delightedly as he turned the carousel on its base, light catching the bright paint of the horses. “Thank you.”

“Mama, look!”

“Oh, don’t go too fast!” Elizabeth hurried over to Valentine, her lavender coat pooling at her feet as she crouched next to the horse, steadying it with her hands.

Needless to say, Valentine did not take his Mama’s advice, either that day or on the many that followed, and the soft rhythmic creak of the horse’s runners became a frequent accompaniment to the family’s pleasant, slow-paced existence in the Town. While George dealt with his business, Elizabeth and Morwenna occupied their time with sewing and music and walks in the gardens, with shopping and tea parties and rides in Hyde Park. It seemed the ladies of the Ton were rather keen to make the acquaintance of Elizabeth – something which Elizabeth dryly remarked might have to do with her husband’s livery being flown from two of the largest ships on the river. Morwenna was of no particular interest to these gossipy hens but they extended her a sort of patronising politeness nevertheless.

“I believe we share a common acquaintance, Miss Chynoweth.” This came in the sugary tones of Miss Pamelia Runcie, the daughter of a merchant with a rather grandiose idea of her own accomplishments.

“Oh, yes?” Morwenna very much doubted this. She had never heard of Miss Runcie before they had been introduced at a card party three weeks earlier, and her life had certainly been no worse off for that.

“Yes, dear Captain Yardley.” Morwenna bit down just a touch too hard on her marzipan sweet, using the time it took to chew it to gather herself.

“Cap – Captain Yardley?”

“Oh, yes…such a dear man. Isn’t he, Marjorie?”

“Yes – “

“The Viscount is a great friend of my Papa, you know.” Miss Runcie, as usual, did not let Marjorie – Miss Marjorie Tattershall, a meek cousin of Miss Runcie’s who was treated by the other woman as little better than servant, and a particularly dull-witted servant at that – finish. Morwenna was not sure she’d ever heard the younger woman get out a complete sentence in Miss Runcie’s presence. She felt very sorry for the girl.

“Is that so?” Morwenna was aware she must be sounded rather slow of mind herself, but the thought of his simpering woman in the presence of the Captain had thrown her – and she was completely unprepared for what Miss Runcie said next.

“They are both most eager for a union between our great families.” Miss Runcie gave a smug giggle, the horrid corkscrew curls around her face trembling as she preened. 

“Oh?” Her teacup clattered against her saucer as she rather shakily replaced it. Unless the Captain was indiscreet – and Morwenna could not imagine this – Miss Runcie likely had no notion of the true extent of the acquaintance between Morwenna and the Captain. Her vulgar boasting was merely for her own benefit. The dark emotion twisting around in Morwenna’s stomach identified itself after a moment as jealousy. Of course the Captain would seek a connexion with a rich family like the Runcie’s, and not with a provincial widow whose position in society only existed by virtue of the generosity of a more distinguished cousin.

Frederick had never mentioned Miss Runcie so far as Morwenna could recall, neither in conversation nor in his letters – and yet, it seemed he had spoken of her to Miss Runcie. What did that mean? She was vaguely aware that the woman was still talking, but she had stopped listening – she doubted it mattered, Miss Runcie was more interested in hearing her own voice rather than who else heard it. Thankfully, Elizabeth appeared shortly afterwards, having extricated herself from her own conversation, and they were able to make their excuses.

Elizabeth noticed Morwenna’s distraction on the carriage ride home, asking if all was well. She was evidently unconvinced by Morwenna’s claim that she had a head-cold coming on, but did not press. Morwenna was relieved –she could not explain what was wrong with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise that Drake would get proper closure. I hope it wasn't too unsatisfying for anyone.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Miss Chynoweth_

_Depending upon the liveliness of the regimental messenger, there is a chance that I may reach you before this letter. With my leave, I am delighted to be able to visit both my brother and your family._

_I am so pleased to hear that you are enjoying London, and that Percival has been so often with you all. With my duties, and our brother’s commitment to the family estates, he has so little in the way of family company – it is so generous of the Warleggans and yourself to welcome him so._

_I must cut myself short, but with no regret as I am gladdened by the thought that we are to meet again soon. I am, as ever,_

_Your humble servant_

_Captain Frederick Yardley_

As it happened the letter had beaten the Captain to the town house by a matter of hours. Bridget placed it by Morwenna’s plate at breakfast, and her heart fluttered as she read it. When George, having gone out early to meet with some business associates, returned at tea-time and announced that he had met the Captain in town and invited him to dinner that evening, the flutter became a pounding.

She spent the afternoon determinedly distracting herself by completing a watercolour of the garden, playing cards with Valentine and helping Elizabeth finally finish the blanket they had been making for baby Christopher. Morwenna had been surprised when Elizabeth produced it a few days previously, but she was glad of it.

“It will be something to remember him by.” Elizabeth murmured softly as they worked, carefully embroidering _CW_ onto the corner.

By the time they heard the bell pulled at the door just before dinner, Morwenna had almost forgotten their guest, which did not stop her breath from hitching when Bridget announced the Captain and he stepped into the room. His eyes found her immediately, his smile brightened and all of her apprehension at seeing him again momentarily evaporated.

Perhaps by deliberate contrivance, they were seated next to one another at dinner. Geoffrey Charles and Percival had also arrived, Elizabeth embracing her eldest son tightly. The boys’ excitable chatter kept the rest of the table occupied, allowing Morwenna and the Captain to talk. He asked after John Conan, and the rest of the family – his admission that he did not like to offer George and Elizabeth condolences over the loss of Christopher for fear of upsetting them touched her – and enquired about her painting, complimenting once more a small sketch of some climbing ivy she had decorated one of her letters with. In return, she asked for news of his regiment, and he told her more of his trip to Newcastle, letters having been sparse at the time due to the distance.

“The gentlemen of the Philosophical Society have the most wonderful collection of books – I have seen very few to match it, even here in London.”

“Oh, my. How I should wish to see it…Although, of course, I doubt women are permitted.” 

“No, indeed.” He titled his head, looking at her with the slightest quirk of his lips. “Although I am sure some would show more true appreciation of its contents….Saving that of Geoffrey Charles, perhaps.”

“Oh, no!” Morwenna laughed. “Not unless the men of Philosophical Society have a fondness for horrid novels!”

“Ah, perhaps you are right…” Quite suddenly, he became serious, glancing down at his half-finished chocolate cream – she had hardly noticed the progress of the courses, so absorbed had they been in conversation. The Captain frowned to himself for a moment, as if considering something, before speaking again. “My father kept a fine library at the Hall, and I have often desired to build one myself. Regimental life has not permitted, but I have often thought that if I were to marry…”

“Are you – are you considering marriage?” Morwenna heard the unsteady note in her voice, and tried to cover it with a sip of her wine.

“For many years I did not – as second son and with my brother married I am not expected to produce an heir – but more recently, I have begun to think often of it….Quite often.”

“Well, I am sure Miss Runcie will be delighted to hear that.” The words had bubbled up out of her like boiling water escaping the lid of a pot; the woman’s smug, sneering face appearing in the back of her mind. Morwenna brought the back of her fingers to her mouth, as if she could press the sound back in. What had possessed her, to speak so baldly? She glanced quickly around the table, but the boys were engrossed in conversation with George, Elizabeth listening with a smile. Only the Captain had heard her, and he was looking at her in confusion.

“Miss Runcie? How do you know Miss Runcie?”

“I was introduced to her some weeks ago. She tells me you are especially acquainted. You had spoken to her of me.”

“Indeed I have not – happily, I have not seen her in months. Since before the last time I saw you. I have spoken of you to no one, save one fellow officer, who is as honourable a gentleman as they come. Even if I were in the habit of confiding my affairs to others, Miss Runcie would be the last person in whom I should wish to place any trust.”

“Oh.” What had she done? Let her emotions get the better of her, and now she had offended him. She opened her mouth to try to apologise, to explain, but the words would not come, and then suddenly George spoke up, declaring it was time to move into the parlour, and she lost her chance.

There was no opportunity to speak to the Captain for the rest of the evening, with everyone gathered around the tea table in the parlour, drinking cordials and playing cards. Once again, the boys dominated the conversation, even though Percival was looking a little tired.

“There’s talk of yet more canals to be built in Staffordshire – and my brother tells me Parliament are considering plans for a link between Somerset and Devon yet again.” The Captain observed lightly, dropping a card onto the table. George nodded, examining his own hand.

“Ah, yes, the great fervour for canal building. They are most certainly useful when planned strategically, but returns are not what they once were so it seems. I am by no means an expert, but I understand that the landscape may make the western route a challenge to construct. Mr Runcie makes much use of canals in his trading I understand, so if you are interested, I should make enquiries with him.” George raised an eyebrow. “If you can bear it.”

“At least he’s not as bad as his dreadful daughter,” put in Percival, making Geoffrey Charles snort and Elizabeth purse her lips in an effort to hide her amusement. Even the indirect mention of Miss Runcie made Morwenna cringe internally, reminding her again what an utter fool of herself she had made. “Geoffrey Charles and I saw her in Kensington Gardens a while ago, and she would not stop her chatter. When she found out that Geoffrey Charles is Mr Warleggan’s step-son I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head!”

Morwenna barely heard the ripple of laughter which followed this remark. That must have been how Miss Runcie knew that Morwenna was acquainted with the Yardleys. Out of the corner of her eye, she was sure she saw the Captain glance at her, and she passed a hand over her face, shame and embarrassment washing over her.

“Morwenna? Are you quite well, my dear?” It took her a moment to register that Elizabeth had spoken to her, eventually looking up to meet her cousin’s concerned eyes.

“I – I – It is trifle warm, and I have a slight headache. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire.” With an excruciatingly awful struggle with her chair, she rose, gave the barest of curtsies and did her best not to run until she was out of the room. Once she got upstairs, she lay on her bed and drew her shawl over her face.

~

The next week or so was incredibly discomforting – several times she attempted to start a letter to him, to apologise, to explain herself…to somehow regain his good opinion. She could not bear him to think badly of her, although she certainly deserved it.

“Mama? Mama?”

“Hmm?” It came to something when even John Conan had noticed her distraction. His brows drew together in a frown as he looked at her. She had been helping him arrange his collection of little wooden animals but evidently her mind had drifted. What was the matter with her, when she could hardly pay attention to her own child? Clearing her throat, she shifted in her seat and returned her attention to the creatures on the table. “Now, what do we have here? An elephant! El – e – phant.”

“Elle-funt.”

“Yes!” He giggled happily at her praise, and she kissed him gently on the head, making him laugh more. She forced herself to concentrate on what they were doing, and for a while the only sounds were the gentle click of the animals’ tiny hooves on the table-top and the faint scratch of George’s pen from his desk at the opposite end of the room. It had come to an oddly timely pause when John Conan had been trying to get her attention, but her cousin seemed to have returned to his work.

After a while, she heard the garden door open and close and then footsteps in the corridor, small stride hurrying to catch up with a longer one. Geoffrey Charles led Valentine in by the hand, bringing the warm scent of outside in with them – flowers and fresh grass. The older boy had come to stay for a few days, much to the delight of both the younger children and his mother. He offered her a smile as they entered, which widened as John Conan waved at him.

“Look, Valentine, here is Papa on his throne.”

“Is he a King?” Valentine looked at his father, who had put down his pen.

“Well, now…” George held out his arms as the boy ran toward him, lifting him onto his knee. “I would say that I am not, but surely only a King would be visited by such fine princes?”

Valentine laughed happily at that notion, and Morwenna saw Geoffrey Charles glance down with a smile. The room turned when the door opened again, this time admitting Elizabeth and Ursula.

“If Papa is a King, then Mama is a Queen!” Valentine declared, and Elizabeth raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“She most certainly is.” George agreed.

“And Aunt Wenna!”

“Definitely,” agreed Geoffrey Charles, grinning at her. She could not help but return it.

“Well, our Royal presence is requested.” Elizabeth waved the letter she held in her open hand. “We have been officially invited to Sir Martin Casely’s masquerade ball Saturday next.”

“A masquerade! How exciting!”

“Perhaps only to young men who read too many lurid novels.” George replied drily, to which Geoffrey Charles merely laughed. “Do you wish to attend, my dear?”

“It might be enjoyable, and it is for the benefit of the Foundling Hospital…Shall I write and accept?”

“Of course, if you wish.”

“Then I shall.” She turned to Morwenna. “I only hope we have enough time to buy new dresses!”

“I – “ For some reason, it had not occurred to Morwenna that she was invited. She was not acquainted with Sir Martin – in fact, she was not sure she had ever heard of him – and frankly she was in no mood for socialising. However, as Elizabeth swept back out of the room, Ursula giggling in delight at being spun so sharply around, it seemed she had no opportunity to argue.

~

As Morwenna so often did, she let her emotional disturbance be overtaken by more material concerns. The very next day, Elizabeth hurried her to the nearest dress-maker who, as soon as he heard Elizabeth’s surname, promised that he would have two exquisite gowns ready in time for the ball. George had once said that he enjoyed a lack of notoriety in London, but it seemed that rich men could not go unnoticed anywhere for long.

Together, the women picked out fabrics and ribbons trims – a beautiful burgundy for Elizabeth with golden embroidery and matching gloves; an elegant dark gold with a black overlay and black gloves for Morwenna.

The days to the ball seemed to fly by, a servant delivering their gowns on the Friday evening, after Bridget had marched along to the shop during the day – despite Elizabeth’s protests – muttering crossly about people leaving things to the last minute.

“Bridget, my dear, the last minute would have been tomorrow.” Elizabeth replied as they unwrapped the boxes.

“Well, that certainly would have been too late!” The housekeeper pursed her lips. It seemed that this particular tailor was to join the not insignificant group of people who did not meet her approval.

 As it happened, the gowns were beautiful, and fit perfectly. Elizabeth helped Morwenna set her hair, tying the ribbon of her black mask neatly beneath the jet comb holding her chignon in place. In turn, she pinned a pair of dark red feathers into Elizabeth’s hair. They fluttered charmingly every time her cousin moved her head.

“Oh, my dear, how beautiful you look.” George smiled at Elizabeth from where he waited at the bottom of the stairs. Elizabeth held her golden mask up to her face and made a little preening motion, laughing as she took George’s arm.

“And Morwenna looks very fine too, does she not?”

“Indeed.” George smiled encouragingly at her, evidently sensing her slight nervousness.

“How is Geoffrey Charles getting to Grosvenor Square?” she asked in the carriage. To his delight, he had been included in the invitation, returning to school full of excited chatter about what mask he would wear. The headmaster had initially refused George’s request for him to leave school for the evening – until George had paid the man a personal visit.

“The Captain is collecting both he and Master Percival.”

“The – Captain?” It was the first mention of him since the disastrous dinner. She had no notion that he was expected to attend this evening. If she had, she might have attempted to excuse herself. How was she to bear his company now that he had turned against her?

The master of ceremonies – and how grand was Sir Martin to have master of ceremonies at a house party! – informed them that the Captain and the young gentlemen had already arrived, and Morwenna was torn between casting her eyes around the room in search of him, and trying to conceal herself behind George and Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth! My dear!” Caroline Enys appeared out of the crowd, clad in a charming green and white gown, the handle of her mask tucked under one arm. The doctor trailed behind her, looking mildly bemused at the whole affair.

 “Caroline! I did not know you were in Town.” Morwenna knew that Mrs Enys had spent some time in London following the tragic loss of her daughter, but she had returned home shortly after Morwenna had moved back to Trenwith.

“Oh, we have only just arrived. Sir Martin’s invitation was put into my hand almost the moment we walked through the door.”

“One would think he could have just given the money to the Foundlings, instead of spending it on all this.” Dr Enys sniffed at a particularly ornate piece of decoration while his wife tutted and shook her head.

“Must you be such a terrible grump? Men! Now, did I see your lovely son somewhere hereabouts?” Caroline took Elizabeth’s arm and led her away, Elizabeth following helplessly in her wake. Truly, the woman was a force to be reckoned with.

“Is Mrs Warleggan well?”

“She is in much better spirits of late.” George replied, glancing after where she had disappeared into the next room.

“I am glad to hear it.” Before George could reply, his name was called by a gentleman Morwenna vaguely recognised from a dinner party they had attended shortly after arriving in London. He excused himself with a bow, leaving her alone with the doctor.

“Are you well, Doctor?” He smiled politely, but did not seem especially pleased to be at the party. She knew how he felt, although she imagined they had vastly different reasons.

“Oh yes, although I must admit that London is not always to my liking.”

“Yes, it can be rather…

“Overwhelming?”

“Yes, precisely…Are you enjoying your visit?” How to answer that question?

“London is…like nothing I had imagined.”

“I am sure.” He smiled. “Can I fetch you some punch?”

“Oh, there’s no need – “

“Please. Allow me.” He bowed slightly before disappearing into the crowd. Alone, she stood awkwardly in the corner, pretending to examine a rather ugly yellow vase on an equally garish plinth when a familiar voice behind her caused her to freeze.

“Miss Chynoweth. Good evening.” Slowly, she turned to face him, surprised to find him smiling at her. He looked extremely dashing in his dress uniform, a mask tucked into the wide gold belt.

“Good evening, Captain.” She took a deep breath, and suddenly, with him standing in front of her, all of her words came out of her in a rush. “I am so very sorry that I spoke to you in that way at dinner, I do not know what came over me. Of course you would never be so indelicate as to discuss our – that is, personal matters with someone else. I should never had even hinted so, and of course, your acquaintance with Miss Runcie is quite none of my business, and – “

“Miss Runcie is a dreadful woman, and her company is quite capable of making people say things they regret.” He was still smiling, wider now.

“Then you are not angry with me?” Hope fluttered in her breast.

“Not in the slightest. I admit I was mildly offended that you believe I would speak of you so casually – that you imagined I thought so little of you.”

“Oh, no!” She met his eyes. “I could never think that.”

“I admit also that your displeasure at the notion that Miss Runcie and I might be acquainted gave me a small measure of hope regarding your feelings.” He moved just a fraction closer. Morwenna did not move back. “Am I mistaken?”

“I am sorry it has taken so long – Oh, Captain Yardley. Good evening.” Morwenna liked Dr Enys very much, but at that moment she could have cursed him. A brief flicker of frustration came over the Captain’s face also, but he mastered it quickly.

“Good evening, Doctor.  Your wife tells me you are recently arrived in town.” The gentlemen slipped into polite conversation, Morwenna trying to listen while her heart leaped and stuttered in her chest. What else might he have said had they not been interrupted? It seemed she would have to wait some time to find out, as Elizabeth, Mrs Enys and George all reappeared, having finally found Geoffrey Charles.

“Is Master Percival not with you?”

“No, he’s not feeling well. I was going to sit up with him, but he insisted I must come and give him a full report!” Morwenna saw the slight frown of worry on the Captain’s face momentarily mirrored in Geoffrey Charles’. She understood them both. Reading between the lines of their letters – and from his appearance at dinner – she deduced that the young man’s illness was not improving. She wondered if she might suggest that Dr Enys see him while he was in London, but she was beaten to it by the Doctor himself.

“I would be most grateful to you, Doctor. I have had many physicians visit him over the years, but so many these days are pure quacks. Or more interested in coin than cure.” This in turn led onto a discussion of Dr Enys’ plans for a hospital in Cornwall.

Eventually, with the evening apparently in full swing, Mrs Enys declared it was time for some dancing.

“Since Dr Enys is a dreadful stick-in-the-mud, it seems it must fall to one of you other gentlemen to stand up with me. What say you, Master Geoffrey Charles?”

“I should be delighted, Mrs Enys!” They made an amusing couple – several of the younger girls in attendance staring enviously at them. As charming as Geoffrey Charles could be, Morwenna rather imagined it was George’s name which chiefly attracted them – or their mothers.

“Well, my dear, shall we follow?” George held out his hand to Elizabeth, who took it with a smile.

“We shall.”

“Would you care to dance, Miss Chynoweth?” Morwenna looked at the doctor in surprise. “I am not quite such a bore as my dear Caroline would have you believe!”

“Oh, no! It is just –  I should be most pleased.” It was not a hesitance to dance which had stopped her, she realised, but that she had been hoping the request would come from someone else. As she and Dr Enys paused for a gap in the set, she glanced back finding the Captain watching them intently. She felt his eyes on her for entire dance.

Geoffrey Charles caught her when the set was finished, and she felt unable to refuse him. Perhaps somewhat to her surprise, she was enjoying herself quite thoroughly. Seeing her cousins looking truly joyful certainly helped, but it was far more than just that. She felt… _free_. It had been gradually coming upon her for a while, at least since her walk in Exeter, but perhaps long before that.

When the dance ended, several parties retreated to seek further refreshment and Morwenna drifted for a moment at the fringe of the floor before the Captain strode towards her.

“I hope, Miss Chynoweth – Morwenna – that I may be so bold – “

“Of course.” He took her hand and she felt the touch deeply, even through her glove. She realised that save when he had come to rescue at the hunt, they had never touched before. They took their positions on the floor, and the ensemble struck up a stately melody. Captain Yardley’s eyes never left her face as they danced, and their gazes met as, with arms intertwined, they turned in the centre of the floor.

But then, something began to happen. The contents of that hidden chest in the back of Morwenna’s mind broke its lock and slithered out into her conscious – things she had barely thought of in months. Stuff of nightmares she had foolishly started to believe she may never have again. Osborne had been distanced from her for so long but now he was here again, as large and lifelike as if he stood in the corner of the room. His face, his voice, his smell crowded out everything – the music, the other dancers, the Captain. The lightest brush of his arm against her waist became Osborne’s hands, grabbing at her, gripping tight enough to bruise –

_“Now, wife, I think I will avail myself – “_

“No!” She wrenched herself back, not hearing the Captain’s response and barely seeing his look of concern. Turning away from him, she fled, straight through the open French doors on the other side of the room, seizing the skirts of her new dress as her feet moved rapidly over the gravel path leading she knew not where. Behind her, she heard someone following, but she did not care, and kept running until her sudden burst of energy failed her and she came to a stop by a stone plinth, fighting to catch her breath against the sobs which were desperately trying to escape her.

“Morwenna!” Her pursuer was Elizabeth, who took one look at her and held out her arms. Morwenna half-collapsed against her cousin and as she cried hot tears onto Elizabeth’s beautiful gown, she knew two things for certain: that she loved Captain Yardley, and that she could never marry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Morwenna! 
> 
> There's still more sadness to come unfortunately, but I promise it will all come out in the end. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's reading.


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days passed rather vaguely, Morwenna going absently about her business, her mind unable to engage with anything beyond her misery and humiliation. Not only did her friendship – and that was such a weak, pathetic word for it – with the Captain lie in tatters, but she had made an entire fool of herself. In front of half of London society – George’s business associates, the Captain’s fellow officers…

Surprisingly, and thankfully, Osborne had haunted her dreams for only one night after the masquerade, but she knew he would return – whenever she was foolish enough to believe she had banished him. His poison would run forever through her veins.

Elizabeth and George were kind – doing their best to keep her, and John Conan, occupied, and trying to cheer her as best they could. She sensed more than once that Elizabeth would like to speak of it, but Morwenna could not. Not now, at least. It was too much.

Lying in her bed, sleep unwilling to come, she stared out into the night, stars twinkling above the London skyline. Her traitorous heart wondered if the Captain – Frederick – was looking up at the same sky, wondered where he was, if he was thinking of her.

Slowly, she reached out, slipping her fingertips into the slightly open drawer at her bedside. Sliding it out, she felt inside, her hand closing around the wooden box. Inside were all of Frederick’s letters, at least all of them she had received in London. Nestled amongst them, the cameo brooch – his gift to her, the only one she would ever have now. In the half-light, Morwenna traced the exquisite carving, the beautifully captured flowing lines of the graces’ robes. She did not realise that tears were running down her cheeks until one dripped onto her hand.

When Bridget knocked quietly on the parlour door the following day and announced the Captain had called, Morwenna’s immediate instinct was to refuse him, not to face her humiliation, but she found that she could not. Her desire to see him overtook every other feeling.

He looked almost nervous when he entered, his hat clutched tightly in his hands instead of tucked neatly under his arm as it usually was. Hesitantly, he approached the chair opposite hers, regarding her rather as if she were a skittish animal, for which she could hardly blame him.

“Mor – Miss Chynoweth. Are you well?” He sat, settling his hat on his lap, his long legs drawn up almost unnaturally; he was holding himself back from her, she realised. She appreciated this consideration, and yet loathed being treated as if she were so fragile. But, was she not? When a mere dance had turned her into little better than a gibbering wreck?

“I am.” It was not entirely true and yet not exactly a lie. She was not ill, even if she felt utterly wretched. “Are you?”

“No. No, I am not.” His eyes met hers. “I am plagued by the thought that I may have offended you in some way – “

“No!” She cried, pained that he could ever think so. “You have been nothing but proper – and kind – and…good.  You have done nothing wrong. Please do not think that.”

“Well…I confess myself relieved to hear you say that. And yet…I feel that I should hesitate in continuing the sentiments I was trying to express to you that night, although I do not know exactly why.”

“As always, Captain, you understand me well.” She heard the sad note in her own voice, and saw by his face that he recognised it also.

“Not so well. I do not know what upset you so. I hope it was not the thought of what I wished to say.”

“No. It is only – “ How to explain? Where to begin? He was looking down at his hands, folded together on the crown of his hat, his handsome brow creased in a frown.

“I – I know that your husband was not the kindest of men – “

“He was an animal.” She did not know exactly what he had been going to say, but his mention of Osborne broke whatever barrier had been holding her back from speaking openly. “He abused me in every way possible, and sought to deprive me of any shred of happiness or comfort. To him I was nothing more than an object to be used in service of his depravity, and discarded when I would no longer comply. Because of this, because of him, love… _physical_ love – the thought of it repels me. Every touch becomes his.”

“ – “ But the Captain seemed to be lost for words. Morwenna kept her eyes fixed firmly on a point somewhere over his left shoulder, unable to bear what she might see on his face. She rose abruptly, and he followed her, but still she could not look at him. 

“So, you see – “ She forced her voice steady, fighting the tears which threatened to fall. “No matter what I might – wish, it cannot be. I am sorry.”

If he attempted any reply, it was lost in the rush of the blood in her head, her strangled sob and the sound of her footsteps as she ran out of the room.

~

“Mama! Mama, look!”

“I see, my love! Be careful!” Despite her words, Elizabeth smiled at Valentine as he ran along behind Geoffrey Charles, following the colourful kite his elder brother flew. John Conan had originally gone along with them, but become distracted by a patch of crocuses, of which he had now picked a rather large bunch for such a small boy.

Elizabeth had been most insistent that they all take a walk in the park together – almost certainly in an attempt to draw Morwenna from her low mood. In the days since Frederick’s visit, Morwenna had kept catching Elizabeth looking at her with a grave expression. Every time, she had attempted – unconvincingly she was sure – to provide some distraction, exclaiming at something one of the children was doing, or starting a conversation about her book, or George’s business, or some item in the newspaper.  She heard the hollowness of her cheer, and she could see in the faces of her cousins that they heard it too.

Today’s outing _had_ lifted a little of the gloom. She had barely been out of doors, not even into the garden. In fact, if it had not been for John Conan, she might have been disinclined to leave her room, so much as she knew that wallowing in her own misery would do her no good – nor change anything.

“It is a pleasant day, is it not?” Morwenna looked up at Elizabeth’s question, realising she had been staring at the footpath as they walked.  Her cousin’s brow was furrowed in a slight frown of concern, an expression she had been wearing more often recently.

“Yes, Elizabeth. It’s lovely. Isn’t it?” Resorting to her usual method of distraction, she bent to talk to Ursula, who toddled along between the two women, holding tightly to their hands. The little girl giggled happily in response and Morwenna tucked in a golden curl which had come free from her bonnet. Elizabeth smiled gently at them, but her face quickly became serious again, and Morwenna realised that she had at last not diverted her.

“I do not like to see you unhappy, my dear.”

“I am not unhappy.” It was a reflexive denial, and unconvincingly delivered. She glanced down at Ursula, but the girl was not paying attention, returned to curiously looking about her – at the trees and flowers, at the people passing by. “Or, at least, I shall not be unhappy for long.”

“Will you not? Is it so easy to put aside a broken heart?”

“I do not – “ But to deny it would be a lie, and Elizabeth would know it. Morwenna’s heart was broken, it was true, and it was not merely for the loss of Frederick, but for herself.  “Perhaps it is not easy, but I believe it can be done. It must be. Not merely for myself, but for my son.”

“That is all very well, my dear, but you are too young to be alone for good….I know – I know that there are things that are difficult to forget, but I also know what it is to be lonely.” Elizabeth glanced away. Of course, she too had been widowed, but she had lost a beloved husband, one who would be missed. Morwenna sensed there was more to it than that, however. To what did Elizabeth refer? Surely not - ? Before Morwenna could think further, her cousin continued. “You will always have a home with us, of course – “

“Oh, but I cannot stay with you forever, as kind as you both are. I must stand on my own- start a new life.”

“And yet what will that life be, if lived in solitude?”

What indeed?

~

“How is he?” Elizabeth did not bother with preamble when George entered the sitting room. He had been to see Geoffrey Charles at school, but it was not her son Elizabeth asked after. His young friend, Percival, had caught a fever, and was suffering badly from it, exacerbated by his chest complaint. With none of Master Yardley’s family in London, Geoffrey Charles had appealed to his mother and stepfather for help. Morwenna could tell from George’s expression that he did not have good news.

“He is not well at all – and the conditions of that school cannot help him. I should have visited before; I wish Geoffrey Charles had told us how Spartan it is. And the doctor they had called for the boy was a stuttering fool. I had them send for a gentleman from Harley Street – he was thorough enough, but he said there is little to be done but wait.”

“The Enys’ are to arrive again shortly.” Elizabeth held up the letter she had been reading. “Perhaps we could ask the doctor to attend.”

“That may be expecting too much even from Dr Enys, as much as we know of his abilities.” George sat down heavily at the tea table, barely acknowledging the cup Elizabeth slid over to him. “I imagine he will agree that the only course is hope.”

“Geoffrey Charles must be so worried.” Morwenna knew how fond her young cousin was of his friend – the only true friend of his age Geoffrey Charles had ever had.

“He will not leave Percival’s side. The headmaster had been trying to force him to return to his lessons, but I said he must be let alone.”

“Have Percival’s family been written to? Perhaps I should – “ Elizabeth began, but George shook his head.

“Geoffrey Charles has written. The Viscount is in Yorkshire, and the Captain is in Manchester with his regiment. How quickly either of them can get here, I do not know.” Morwenna was briefly surprised to learn that Frederick had left London without writing to her, but of course he would never write to her again. This was the first time anyone in the house had mentioned his name in her presence since his visit. She might have been irked by their delicacy had it not been for the unhappy lurch of her stomach at hearing him spoken of. “I thought of having him brought here, but I don’t think he is well enough to be moved.”

“Perhaps when he is better, he can come here to recover in comfort.” Elizabeth attempted a smile and George returned it, but neither was entirely convincing.

When she lurched suddenly awake two nights later, Morwenna was not at first sure of what had disturbed her. Then, she heard hushed voices and footsteps in the hall. Elizabeth was at the top of the stairs when she stepped out of her bedchamber, foreboding already settling on her. This was the third time in several months that she had been awoken during the night and she did not imagine this occasion to augur any less ill.

“Elizabeth?”

“There’s someone at the door.” Morwenna realised that it must have been the bell which woke her up, but at this point their mysterious night-time visitor began banging on the door most urgently. Elizabeth had stopped on the landing, and Morwenna lent over the bannister, from which vantage point she could just see into the entrance hall. Bridget was approaching the door, still dressed but with her hair loose and an old shawl wrapped about her shoulders.  She stopped short at George’s voice.

“I’ll get it, Bridget.” He had obviously been working late, appearing from the direction of his study. Morwenna could not quite see the door from where she stood, and after George opened it there was a moment of no sound bar the lashing of the rain outside until he reappeared, leading a pale, soaking wet Geoffrey Charles.

“Oh, my dear boy!” Elizabeth flew down the stairs to him, pulling off her own robe to wrap around him. “What has happened?”

“It’s Percy.” His voice was so small, Morwenna had to lean almost dangerously over the rail to hear him. “He’s dead.”

~

It had taken some time to get a full explanation out of Geoffrey Charles, as distraught as he was. Percy had apparently taken a turn for the worse during the night, and nothing could be done for him.

“He was so weak…And he kept asking for his Mama.” Percival’s mother had died when he was young, Frederick and the Viscount were the only family he had left.

Sadly, they both arrived too late to see their brother before he died, the Captain by less than a day. Morwenna knew how deeply he had loved Percival, their bond strengthened by the loss of their mother and their father’s focus on their elder brother as the heir to his title. She could only imagine his distress at the loss, and at being unable to say goodbye.

How fragile life was! How cruel. It was only a few weeks since Percival had been with them at the house – laughing with Geoffrey Charles, playing with the younger children. Poor boy; the world seemed just a little less bright without him.

Geoffrey Charles shut himself away in his room, devastated even further by learning that he could not even attend his dear friend’s funeral, as his body was to be taken back to the Yardley’s family home and buried alongside his parents. George had made the arrangements in London, ensuring Percival was taken care of in the absence of his brothers.

Frederick called upon them two days after Percival’s death, his face pale and drawn, his grief an almost physical presence alongside him. Seeing him again was deeply affecting for many reasons. He held Morwenna’s gaze for a few moments after Bridget showed him in, before she looked away, hating herself for her cowardice, and for her selfishness in thinking of her own heartbreak at this time.

“His Lordship – that is, my brother – and I wish to thank you for everything you did for Percival. It gives a small measure of comfort to know that he had friends nearby in his final days. I only wish that I – “ His voice cracked and he broke off, clearly making a tremendous effort to master himself, and Morwenna had to fight back her own tears. She felt so deeply for him.

“We are so very sorry for your loss. Percival was a wonderful boy.” Elizabeth said, softly. “We will always remember him fondly.”

“He was very happy with you all, and I am pleased that he had a friend such as Geoffrey Charles.” He looked around, distractedly, as if noticing for the first time that Geoffrey Charles was not with them. “Where is he? Back at school?”

“No. We have kept him with us. He is in his room. He is very upset, of course.”

“Perhaps I may look in on him? If you think it would not distress him.”

“Of course not. I think he would like to see you before you go.”

“When do you leave?” The question was out of Morwenna’s mouth before she could stop it. Frederick – she should really think of him as Captain Yardley again now – paused after he stood, and their eyes met again.

“First thing tomorrow. We want to take Percival home as soon as possible.” She had nothing more to say to that, so let Elizabeth’s voice drift away as she showed the Captain out, no doubt directing him to Geoffrey Charles’ room.

Would that be the last she would ever see of Frederick? There was much talk of war at the moment – perhaps his regiment would be given marching orders soon. At the thought of that her breath caught, panic gripping her. And yet, what right did she have to feel so? He was not hers to fear for. She had seen to that.

~

“I think I shall retire. Now that this one is sleeping.” Elizabeth cradled the now slumbering Ursula on her lap. The little girl had proven resistant to going to bed that evening, but some warm milk and cuddling to her Mama on the sofa seemed to have done the trick. “Do not stay up too late. Either of you.”

“We will not, my dear.” George touched Elizabeth gently on the arm as she kissed his cheek, and she left, carrying Ursula gently. Morwenna could not help but smile after them, Ursula snuggled into Elizabeth’s shawl.

They sat quietly for a while after, the only noise the respective scratching of their pencils. George was working, as usual, while Morwenna was making some stuttering attempts to sketch. She had been in no mood for such things fora while, but felt that she should at least try to do something useful with her time, or she would give herself up entirely to unhappiness.

“Elizabeth says that you are thinking of returning to Cornwall.” She broke the silence eventually, turning in her seat at the table. George nodded, lowering his papers.

“Yes. I have no pressing need to remain, and we have been away for quite some time.” He glanced down. “This visit has perhaps not been quite so pleasant as we may have hoped.”

“Indeed…When do you intend to leave?”

“By the end of the week.”

“I wondered if…If perhaps I might stay for a while? With John Conan, of course.  I think some time by myself might be beneficial.” There were too many memories at home that she was not quite ready to face once again. In truth, she was also beginning to feel as if she were rather under foot all the time, so much as George and Elizabeth would certainly say otherwise. She had gone from her mother’s house to Trenwith, to the Whitworths’ and back to Trenwith again – perhaps she should be alone for a while.

“Well, you do not need to ask my permission, my dear. You are your own woman.”

“But this is your house.”

“It is yours too, whenever you wish it.” George smiled at her. “I imagine it must be rather tiring to have us always hovering around you.”

“Oh no! You have both been so very kind, it is just – “

“There is no need to explain. Elizabeth will miss you at home, of course, and Valentine will be most bereft without John Conan to play with – “ Morwenna laughed softly. “But you must do as you like.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, speaking of Elizabeth, I think it is time I retired, or she will not be best pleased.” Morwenna went back to her half-formed sketch as George sorted some papers on his desk, but looked up when he paused in the doorway. “My dear, there are things of which I have not spoken to you, because I felt it was not my place, and I did not wish to upset you…But, I will say one thing…”

“Yes?”

“That man was a millstone around your neck while he lived…Only you can stop him from being so in death.” Morwenna did not need to ask to whom George referred. Only one man cast a dark shadow over her life. Trust George to get so efficiently to the heart of things. He gave a small nod, half to himself. “Good night, Morwenna.”

“Good night, George.”

His words lingered in her mind when she bid the family goodbye a few days later – Elizabeth, Valentine and a still drawn Geoffrey Charles embracing her tightly, John Conan running after the carriage to wave until it was out of sight – and she knew they would continue to do so for quite some time.

~

“Come ‘ere ye scamp!” John Conan shrieked with laughter as he ran round and round the fountain at the bottom of the garden, little feet pattering on the flagstones. Polly, who had volunteered to stay behind to attend to them both, chased him, darting from side to side and deliberately missing him when she made to close her arms around him. Morwenna could not help but smile at her little boy’s antics – how happy he was. Being separated from his playmates Valentine and Ursula had made him a touch subdued at first but the purchase of some new toys and plenty of sweet treats from the kitchen had soon cheered him.

Perhaps she should not let him run riot around the house, but she loved seeing him so carefree. The darkness of the world had not touched him yet – and would not for so long as she could prevent it. He was a Chynoweth now – hers and hers alone.

His giggles continued in the background as she picked up her brush again, swirling it in water and touching the tip to her green pigment. Although she had not exactly been in a mood to paint, she had simply forced herself to get back into the habit. She should have learned from her prior experiences with the children and not bothered to attempt a portrait of John Conan. One of Polly had turned out much more successfully, the young woman blushingly flattered to be the subject, objecting faintly that she wasn’t ‘the sort o’person who ought be painted’.

Now, Morwenna added a touch of colour to the outline of the box hedge. This study of the townhouse garden would be a gift for George and Elizabeth when she returned to Trenwith, although she was not yet sure when that would be. While she did miss the family so – especially the children – she could not deny that her time in relative solitude had been pleasant. To have no demands on her at all, to entirely please herself for possibly the first time in her life.

She had thought sometimes of Osborne, but not quite with the same horror as she once had. The clarity with which the memories came to her was not as sharp, although she had no doubt it could be again. She was not naive enough to believe once again that she had banished him, but perhaps…perhaps, she would eventually be able to put some real distance between herself and that dreadful time.

“Mor – Miss Chynoweth?” She turned about so abruptly that she almost knocked over her easel, hardly believing that she had heard his voice. But there he was, standing hesitantly on the patio, turning his hat over in his hands, the sun shining on his bright red coat. “Am I wrong to come?”

“No!” As shocked as she was to see him again, she was far from displeased, her heart leaping in her chest. She stood clumsily, almost holding out her hand to him but snatching it back at the last moment, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “I mean – Good day, Captain Yardley. Please, sit down. Shall I call for tea?”

“No, thank you.” He sat at the opposite end of the stone bench. With his legs just a touch too long for the height of the seat he looked, for possibly the first time she could recall, slightly awkward.

“How – How is your family?” There were so many things she could say, all piling on top of one another in her mind, and so she settled for an attempt at a polite enquiry.

“As well as can be.” He smiled sadly. “Percival was buried with our parents….It still seems not quite real. I forget sometimes, that he is no long here, and it is a sharp shock when I remember.”

“Oh, Frederick…” She only realised after a moment that she had called him by his Christian name. It had seemed so natural. How hard she had tried to forget him, to put him out of her mind, but seeing him again brought every feeling back, both sweet and bitter.

“Yet it is Percy’s loss which brings me here.” Morwenna tilted her head, unsure of what he could mean. “It has reminded me of how precious life is. One would think as a solider I would know that, and yet…How many times I have told my men to live their lives to the full, while failing to do so myself. It may be that we will soon receive our marching orders, and I know that I could never forgive myself if I left without seeing you again.”

“I – “

“Please, let me say what I have come to.” She nodded, unsure that she could have managed to say much more in any event. “I will say it and then, if you wish, never speak to you of it again, or of anything if that is your wish….Your husband was a pitiful excuse for man, who betrayed his duty to you in the worst way imaginable. It pains me to know that a woman such as you was ever treated thusly, and to see you brought so low by such a worthless creature. But…what he did, it was not love. It was far from it. You deserve to know love, real love. I can think of no one I have ever known who deserves it more.”

“I told you – “ She had promised not to interrupt, but could not help herself. She may have been able to close her mind somewhat to Osborne, but everything she had told Frederick before held true. She was not fit to be loved.

“There is more to life than the physical is there not?” When he met her eyes, she was surprised to see the glimmer of unshed tears and her heart ached. “I had not so much as touched your hand before I knew I had fallen in love with you.”

“Oh…” He had never spoken it aloud before. It caught her breath, her instinctive wish to return the words.

“But – But you must know that I will never be like him. If you would have me, I swear to you that I would never so much as unbutton a glove without your consent. Never, if that is what you want.”

“How? How could you live with that?” Morwenna could hardly believe what he was saying. Surely, no man would willingly enter into such an arrangement?

“I have lived alone my entire life, with little…company, and it has never bothered me before. To seek it out as eagerly as some men has never been my inclination. So far as I am concerned, it would be a vanishingly small price to pay for your hand.” She had no doubt from his expression that he was completely sincere.

“But what of children? Heirs? Even if – even if I were to – “ She halted. This was something she had never spoken of, not even to Elizabeth. “John Conan’s birth was difficult, and Osborne did not allow me to recover…”

“But you would give me a child.” Frederick looked out across the garden and Morwenna followed his gaze to see Polly leading John Conan along the length of the far wall, helping him pick little red flowers from the climbers trailing up the brickwork.

“You could love another man’s child?”

“I would love yours.” At that, she felt her own gathering tears begin to spill over. What a wonderful man he was. He deserved so much more than what she could give him. And yet… He cleared his throat, mastering himself. “Well, that is all. Dare I ask what you say in return?”

“I – “ Selfishly, her mouth would not speak the words of refusal. She thought of Elizabeth’s question to her in the park, George’s words before he left, of her own contemplations, of all of the misery and agony and pain that it was now in her hands to defeat. She took a deep breath and met the Captain’s dark gaze. “I say that that is not the question I wish you to ask me.”

“Do you mean - ? Can you?” Morwenna nodded her head, lost for any more words, and Frederick’s smile as he slowly lowered himself onto one knee was very nearly the brightest she had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all! (For now)
> 
> I did promise that Morwenna would get her happy ending, and so she has. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has read this fic - I honestly never thought it would get even this many hits considering the subject matter, so it really means a lot that people have followed on with it. 
> 
> There may be a sequel coming in the future, so watch this space :D

**Author's Note:**

> This is a heavily AU fic, dealing with the fact that I felt several characters, and relationships, suffered from wasted potential and disservice to their earlier characterisation in s3 & 4\. The idea sort of got away from me in the end. I don't know how many people will be interested in a fic without a canon ship at the forefront, but I hope those of you who do read enjoy it. Thanks for reading this far!


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